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WHERE WILL THIS PATH LEAD! 


Pi TALC or A SlIAWCi:? TI?IP. 


Six Weeks at the Seaside 

And What It Led To. 


r- 


V' 

By S. W. DONOVAN. 


1898. 

THE LANING PRINTING COMPANY. 
Norwalk, Ohio. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, 

By THE LANING PRINTING COMPANY, Norwalk, Ohio, 
In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



UrO V 

2n' 

1896 . 


Dedication. 

There is a woman with whom I have been long in love. It had its birth on her soft 
breasts. She is no longer young. The chisels of four score years and ten 
have been carving her features. Her brow is wrinkled— her cheeks 
are furrowed— her eyes are dimmed. To me her face has 
grown sweeter as the years have worked upon it. The 
anointing grace of God rests on it as a splendor. 

By the exquisite loveliness of that face, I 
compare all beauty. By the purity of 
her life, I judge all character. 

By the devotion of her 
’ heart. I measure 

all love. 


to my mother T Dedicate this Book. 

— The Author. 


I ! 



t 


I 







I 

1 






L 


I 


«• 




1 



CHAPTER I. 


"It is the glorious summer.” 

“Yes, Miss, our road is the pleasantest in the country. 
It is the ne plus tdtra of civil engineering — hope it is 
not necessary to explain that Latin. Without abrupt 
curves, it is as smooth as a skating rink. Thoroughly 
ballasted, with each side grass- platted, it is as free from 
dust as are the snow-capped Sierras. The scenery en 
route is unparalleled, and therefore incomparable. The 
eye never wearies for a moment. Change follows change 
with more rapidity than the shifting scenes of a drama. 
Variety and beauty first surprise, then capth’-ate, and 
then entrance. Towering mountain and rolling savan- 
nah, wooded slope and inviting glen, babbling stream and 
placid lake, majestic rivers, and meadows flushed with 
flowers and teeming with fertility, we span the continent, 
with lateral branches reaching into every nook and corner 
of our grand republic. ’ ’ 

He was a traveling passenger agent, one of those 
broad-as-long men, with little pouched eyes, great flabby 
jowles, stubbed nose, half webbed fingers, with an abdo- 
men like a grass-fed ox, on which he kept one hand to 
hold it in place, lest it should slough off, while, with the 
other, he mopped his semi-bald head with a handkerchief 
already incapable of absorption. Little streams of per- 
spiration percolated from every pore and ran down his 


2 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


puffed cheeks like drops of water on a window pane. As 
he finished his piece he drew a long breath, cleared his 
throat with an ‘'ahem,^^ and peered into our faces with 
intense inquisitiveness. Grace for a moment returned 
his stare, then stepped back and scanned him from his 
overgrown feet to his hairless apex, and said : — ‘‘Yes, I 
have read all about it. Do you do the literary work for 
the road?’’ 

“Oh! Bless you, no. Miss. We have a hired man 
for that — literary man of great reputation. But he can’t 
talk. Eacks in gall. He says he pities us who have to 
assault the multitude. But, your servant, are you going 
a long distance ? ” 

“No,” replied Grace, “only a hundred or so miles 
down the coast. We dropped in to inquire about trains 
and secure tickets.” 

“Your servant, ladies, I will see that you secure 
every particle of information necessary to your safety 
and comfort in traveling. Will you accompany me to 
the ticket office?” 

Of course we accompanied him. He regretted that 
we were not to travel on his line. Our destination was 
one of the nooks which it did not reach. He assured us 
that he knew the route well, and that it was admirably 
managed, particular care being taken to prevent asphyx- 
iation of passengers by dust. When we reached home I 
remarked : 

‘ ‘ I am so glad our rail trip will be pleasant. If 
there is anything I do abhor, it is dust when traveling. 
You remember our frightful condition when we got back 
last summer ? I was almost suffocated, and for a fort- 
night could not relieve myself of the idea that my 
nostrils and ears were full of dust. I was continually 


GI.ORIOUS SUMMER. 


3 


boring for particles, and ceased only when I felt that I 
was irritating membranes. ’ ^ 

Don’t flatter yourself with congratulations. I set 
down as truth the opposite to all he said. He knows 
nothing about the route we shall take. It is more than 
probable that he has never been over it. That was a 
railroad talking-inachine. All the companies have them. 
They are crammed. That speech has undergone almost 
innumerable rehearsals. Others heard it today before 
we did, and others have heard it since. It is only neces- 
sary to. indicate by word or act that you intend to travel, 
when it begins to rattle. I always listen, but never 
believe, nor indulge in hope that there is a possibility 
that what it says is true, and therefore, am never disap- 
pointed. Unless a good rain covers the country through 
which we pass, there will be oceans of dust. I predict 
that you will be in a semi-comatose state by the time we 
reach the coast/ Supply yourself with cotton. Stop up 
your ears and nostrils. You will be able to take, through 
your mouth, your full portion of the dust which is essen- 
tial to your health during the year. ’ ’ 

Grace is too practical. It seems to give her delight 
to dissipate illusions. I felt real comfort while that jolly 
fellow was talking. Indeed, I gave range to my imagi- 
nation, and with my mind’s eye drew a picture of beauty 
for which I have been longing but have never seen, never 
having been a hundred miles from the great city, and 
then having traveled by night, going and coming, to 
avoid intense heat. She might have permitted the picture 
to remain. One instant the eye rested on towering 
mountains, and the next tried to fathom the gloom of 
some exquisite glen, or lost itself on far-reaching plain, 
fringed with placid streams and dotted with flocks and 


4 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


herds. A ballasted road, rivaling the very rocks for 
solidity, with entire absence of dust, and just sufficient 
rocking motion in the train to impress one that you are 
swinging in a hammock to and fro, in answer to the 
breeze. Grace has all the qualities and characteristics of 
an iconoclast. A few days ago I was indulging in a 
rhapsody on the happiness of the D— ^s with whom she 
had been visiting for a week, when she smashed my 
fancy work with — 

‘‘Yes, happy as people unfitted for each other can 
be. Daily pouts, petty misunderstandings, silly-mannered 
make-ups, impressing one with the idea that one’s 
presence alone prevented severe agitation of the family 
atmosphere. Lizzie can’t bear to have Harry act strong 
and manly. She keeps him in a sophomoric mood, and 
thinks he ought to be always and forever playing with 
his kitten. I suffered mental pain half my waking hours 
with them. I found it necessary on one occasion to give 
her a delicate lecture. In response she whined, and then 
mewed and purred until I felt that I had been cruel.” 

“ Grace,” I said, ‘‘if I thought I should suffer from 
dust as I did last summer, I would not go one step. ’ ’ 

“Yes, you would.” 

‘ ‘ I would not. ’ ’ 

“Yes, but you would.” 

“ I think I ought to know my own mind.” 

“ You do not.” 

“ Miss Tyrant, I will not go.” 

“Then I will go alone.” 

“ You will not go alone.” 

‘ ‘ Then you will go with me. I must have somebody 
to take care of me, and you are the only person who can. 

“ Take care of you, Grace. Well, I declare.” 


GLORIOUS SUMMER. 


5 


Don’t make any declarations. You must take 
care of me. I don’t need a guard against personal 
danger, but I must have somebody to prevent me from 
doing ‘ foolish things ’ — that is the expression, I believe. 
How often have you told Papa that I cannot be trusted 
alone. He believes it — has a most foolish confidence in 
your judgment as to the proprieties, and so have I. My 
good old auntie, you are going, for I am going. Yes, 
going, though Sahara clouds envelop us all the way, 
aren’t we, dear?” 

As she closed the sentence she threw her arms 
around me, and, laughing, tried to kiss me, but I fought 
her off the best I could, and finally submitted. Of 
course, I had to go. Had I been dying to remain, I 
would have died had I remained. She had determined 
to spend the summer on the beach at B — . I had never 
heard of the place. She assigned no reason for going 
there, and was extremely indefinite while speaking of the 
selection. I was a little pouty, and determined to dis- 
cover the whys for going to this out-of-the-way place. 

‘ ‘ Grace, when did you learn of this beach, a love 
for which you so suddenly and intensely manifest ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am not in love with it. I know nothing about 
it, other than that a railroad man says it is a quiet place, 
and most of the visitors are invalids. ’ ’ 

” From a railroad man,” I said in surprise. ” Pray, 
what railroad man do you know ? ’ ’ 

^ ^ Don’t know any. I got it from a nice little circular 
which I picked from a bundle in the city passenger cars, 
and was won, as were you, by that ‘ talking-machine. ’ 
It just exhausted language in describing the beauties of 
the beach. I am confident that it contained but one 
truth. It said that it is a quiet spot far from the world’s 


6 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


alarm. I indulge the hope that that is true. We will 
decide by testing. ' ' 

Grace, this is wild-goosing. Why not go to the 
* Pier ’ or the ' Orchard ’ or to Newport, or some quieter 
place of which you know something ? ’ ’ 

Don’t mention them. I am tired of Newport, and 
the ‘Orchard,’ and Saratoga, and the mountains. Expe- 
rience is a repulsive medicine. I never take but one dose 
of it. I am tired of fashion and folly — weary of the 
seeming and pretense which crowd the established resorts, 
and I am longing for something that is new, fresh and 
pure. It is possible, perhaps probable, that I shall be 
disappointed, t may find things falser than those with 
which I am familiar. We will go to this point on the 
coast and enjoy its beauties and pleasures as set down in 
print, or discover that the unreal is everywhere — that 
‘ seeming ’ is the song of the world, and that while social 
life has its prima donnas, the weakest hum at the song. 
A strange sentiment seized me when I read the circular. 
I was impressed that that was my objective point for the 
summer. Something is there or something will happen, 
which will enable us to fill up sixty days of life pleas- 
antly. I cannot give a reason for my conceit. You may 
call it a whim, or what you please, but I feel that out of 
it will grow matters of more importance to my life than 
all that has heretofore occurred. We must go in the 
morning — rather sudden, but we shall need but little 
preparation. This is not to be a season of fashion. 
Besides, I want to test your oft repeated remark that 
you are always in marching order and ready to start at 
the tap of the drum.” 

I submitted without a word, entering into all her 
arrangements as though I had planned them. At dark- 


GLORIOUS SUMMER. 


7 


ness we commenced to pack, and it was away into the 
night before we completed the work. Grace finished 
first and passed through the communicating door to her 
own room. When I finished, *‘Well, it’s done,’' I 
remarked. No response came from Grace, and I slipped 
into her room. Poor, tired thing, I found her fast asleep 
in a rocker. I kissed her awake, and bade her good 
night, reminding her that the train started at 6 A. m. 

I was unable to go to sleep. My mind busied itself 
with the last three seasons. Her first summer was satis- 
factory to us but did not seem to be appreciated by Grace, 
who laughed at our earnestness. Her second was more 
successful than the first. There was adoration every- 
where, and she touched hearts until they throbbed with 
delight or ached with anguish. When it was over, she 
was utterly unconcerned and likened it to a treadmill. 
Last summer she really mowed her way to triumph. 

Her rivals fringed her path as autumn leaves a 
walk. At its close, she severed every tie and dismissed, 
without ceremony, every acquaintance the season had 
brought. Never at home to any of the ''Summer 
folks.” Refused to talk of them, and dismissed each 
effort to draw her mind back to them by saying, ' ' I 
have forgotten them. They were transients. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER 11. 


** Under the opening eyelids of the morn.^^ 

Grace was up and dressed for the trip before she 
awoke me. Usually I am the earlier riser, but this 
morning I slept soundly notwithstanding I had deter- 
mined to rise at dawn. 

' ' I am ready to start. It is only an hour and a 
half until train time. Breakfast is waiting. Would 
have waked you sooner, only I wanted to get through 
my fussing before you commenced yours. ’ ' ‘ ' Bustle, 
bustle,'' she said, tapping me on the brow with her 
fingers and then leaving the room. 

''Oh, do come," she called. 

" Coming, " I replied. I almost jumped into my 
traveling habit. On reaching the foot of the stairs I 
met her coming from her father's room. Big pearly 
looking drops were hanging in the corners of her eyes, 
at which she struck with the tips of her gloves. Twirl- 
ing me around in the direction of her father's room, she 
said : 

' ' Go quick and get your instructions. " In a few 
seconds I had secured them. They were very brief — 

' ' Take care of her. ' ' 

To me it seemed silly to place Grace in my charge. 

I am argued or cajoled out of every position which does 
not suit her views, and thus, instead of guiding and 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


9 


directing her, I am led. She claims to be in slavery to 
me, answering every beck and call, and doing my bid- 
ding with lamb-like resignation. It is the purest fiction. 
It is I who am in servitude. She rules me absolutely. 

Her ways of attaining her ends are indescribable 
and always effective. A marvel of beauty, she does not 
seem conscious of it. Her figure is the perfection of 
symmetry. Her carriage and mien just sufficiently 
haughty to insure dignity and instantly command atten- 
tion. The plainest gown or the most costly, neither 
detracts nor adds to the charms of her person or the 
grace of her manner. Faultless in feature and forma- 
tion, her face is lighted by eyes with the depth of ocean 
and comprehension of space. Every thought she has 
finds expression in her face. Passion and resignation, 
determination and tenderness, womanly timidity and 
stoical firmness, give place to each other as her heart 
dictates. 

A cup of coffee and a roll and then the carriage. On 
entering the station she indulged in a long drawn yawn. 

You observe, auntie, it is not about.’’ 

‘‘You mean the adipose ticket agent? ” 

“Yes. What will we do without him? Perhaps 
that dapper little fellow bedizened with braid and lace, 
standing at the front of the sleeper, contains the neces- 
sary information.” She addressed him: 

‘ ‘ Palace car for the beach at B — ? ’ ’ 

There was an affirmative answer, and we were aided 
to the platform. 

“ I hope it is a fresh one,” she said, as she entered. 
“If it has been on the road all night, and crowded, we 
will come near closing the game of life before we reach 
the beach. ’ ’ 


10 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


I observed her nose wrinkle and her upper lip 
assume a more decided curl, as she turned her head to 
say : 

‘‘The cattle axe still sleeping. Fortunately only 
four sections are in use and the air does not completely 
stifle, though it is bad enough. I don’t like the appear- ^ 
ance of those boots,” — pointing to a pair of large 
brogans, which looked as if they had had a bath of oil. 
‘‘The porter was afraid to assault them, nor do I won- 
der that he should be. ’ ’ 

“Grace, don’t talk so loud,” I said, “and cease 
criticism and comment.” 

‘ ‘ As to persons, yes, but as to a sleeper which has 
been in use all night, no. Next to a charnel house is a 
crowded palace car at six a. m. Though the weather 
were smothering in sultriness, the windows are all down, 
lest some old rheumatic or some young fashion-killed 
Miss, who has laced and danced her life away, should 
take cold. Even this atmosphere, though the car has 
undergone ventilation since its arrival at the station, is 
scarcely bearable. Imagine it before ventilated, when 
every berth has been occupied. No, dear, don’t try to 
imagine it. Take the other side and get close to the 
window. ’ ’ 

We were soon flying over the road, through a coun- 
try possessing few attractions. There was an abundance 
of red clay, indifferent dwellings constructed without 
taste, which were fit companions for the stunted pines 
and scrubby white oaks which broke what would other- 
wise have been a most monotonous landscape. A slight 
rain had fallen during the night, just sufficient to lay the 
dust, and thus relieve us of the suffocation which Grace 
had predicted. The air was cool, fresh and winey, and 


OPENING EYEIylDS. 


11 


as we were whirled along Grace indulged in criticism 
and comparison, and the country suffered as she dwelt 
on the beauty of the Berkshire hills and the splendor of 
the banks of the Hudson and the Merrimac. She turned 
her face toward the berths with the remark : 

* ‘ I wish those people would rise. I am impatient 
to see them and indulge in a little mental dissection. ' ' 

‘‘I am sorry they are not aware of your wishes. 
If they were they would bound out of their beds like 
balls. It would be so pleasant to know that a lady of 
elegant attainments was waiting to tear them into 
tatters. ' ’ 

‘ ' Aunt Rebecca, keep the poison hidden, dear. 
Irony is pardonable only when it lacks malignity. Your 
temper is a bad leader. Learn to curb it, or you will 
certainly be unhappy. ^ ' 

‘ ‘ Grace, you are a descendant of the harpies. ’ ’ 

‘ ' Concede I am. They were not without their uses. 
But my dear aunt, I know you are worried. I’ll be good 
and prim from this evermore, and, as an evidence of my 
repentance, read that. It is the circular which won me 
to the seaside haven of B — . Comfort yourself with the 
reflection that you are en route for the most delicious 
watering place on the coast. The circular says so. Be 
sweet now.” 

I took the circular and while listlessly looking it 
over, I heard a call in a weak voice of — 

‘ ‘ Brother, brother. ’ ’ 

In an instant there sprang from an opposite berth a 
man who seemed to be waiting for the call. He drew 
aside the curtain and lifted out a girl of sixteen, the 
frailest human existence I had ever seen. 


12 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘Laced and danced to death/ ^ whispered Grace. 
I gave her a look which was intended to be severe. She 
smiled in return, and then seemed annoyed. 

The man steadied the invalid for a few moments, 
and then, partly carrying her, started for the ladies^ 
toilet room. As he passed our section, a curve in the 
road twirled him around, and, to save himself from fall- 
ing, dropped on the seat fronting Grace, with his burden 
in his arms. The young girl laughed at the mishap, 
and, turning to Grace, said : 

“Pardon, Miss.” Then to her brother, “ think I 
can walk alone. I feel much stronger this morning. 
My sleep last night was excellent. Were I to travel 
constantly, I should soon be well again. Let me try to 
walk alone.” 

She arose and stood unsteadily for a moment. Just 
as she made the first step, Grace’s arm encircled her 
waist. They looked into each other’s faces a moment, 
when the invalid threw her arms around Grace’s neck, 
and without a word the brother was relieved of his 
charge, and Grace had her alone in possession. I fol- 
lowed them a few steps, and then returned to my seat. 
Grace is right in calling me an old maid. I lose my 
self-possession just when I need it most. Instead of 
speaking to the gentleman, and thus easing the situa- 
tion, I looked out of the window in .silence and abstrac- 
tion, not even noting the ugly red clay banks of the 
deep cut through which we were passing. How long I 
looked, whether for moments or minutes, I do not know. 
I felt my nerves giving way, and in sheer restlessness I 
turned and faced him. His great eyes were fixed on 
me — were absorbing me. 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


13 


‘ ‘ Pardon, madam, who is the lady who accompanied 
my sister ? ’ ’ 

'‘Grace Preston, of New York,’' I replied, and on 
the instant was myself again. We chatted of the 
delicious morning, the fresh air, the uninteresting land- 
scape and the sterile soil, but not one word about the 
sister or Grace. He was six feet high, broad shouldered, 
wide chested, brown haired, grey eyed, with strong 
features, decisive mouth and big jaw. His brow was 
low, broad and square, and his eyes set wide apart. 
Nose prominent but not excessive. The more I looked 
in his face the more I was impressed that a man — a big, 
strong, healthy, manly man, was talking to me. In a 
few minutes I excused myself and went to the toilet 
room. I found Grace seated with the young girl’s head 
resting on her breast, while the former’s right hand was 
toying with a frill around the invalid’s neck. As I 
entered, Grace said: 

" Miss McMillan, my aunt. Miss Rebecca Duncan, 
of New York.” 

Then, in a voice sweet as sweet bells the invalid 
spoke, reaching out her hand. “You will excuse me 
I am resting. Invalids must rest. I am in search of 
the most precious of all things, health. It has returned 
to me wonderfully for the last few days. I will soon be 
strong. Brother says that the ocean’s breath will flood 
my cheeks with the hues of the rose, and I believe 
him. ’ ’ 

I could not help it. In an instant I had kissed her 
brow. Then, reaching out my arms, I said: 

“ Grace, let me hold her. You are not strong.” 

“No, auntie, dear. You have had no experience 
with invalids, and I have. I nursed to robust health 


14 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


that widow's daughter who lived in the alley, in the rear 
of our home. The attending physician said I was the 
rarest nurse he ever saw. Aunt Rebecca, she is our 
charge— that is, sometimes I will permit you to wait 
upon her. We have already come to an understanding, 
and she has promised to follow my counsel in all things. 
She, too, is bound for the beach at B — 

' ‘ Except when it is at variance with that of my 
brother,” smilingly interrupted Miss McMillan. 

‘ ‘ Oh, he and I will always agree. We know what 
is best for invalids. ' ' 

Miss McMillan laughed as she gazed steadily into 
Grace’s face, and then said, I want you to love him, 
and know you will. You will not be an exception to 
everybody. ’ ’ 

The blood jumped to Grace’s face and throat, giv- 
ing a Venetian red to the delicate peachblow tints that 
were her natural color. 

We’ll see,” replied Grace. 

Miss McMillan told us that in the previous October 
she had been attacked by typhoid fever. All the fall 
and winter she had been confined to her room, and most 
of the time to her bed. There was a long period when 
she lingered on the dividing line between life and death. 
When the fever broke, it left her weak and helpless, and 
for weeks she grew weaker instead of stronger. She 
languished without pain or suffering, save the terrible 
oppression of weakness. She lost all fear of death and 
hourly talked with the grim monster, canvassing his 
power and complacently waiting his summons. She said 
that without fear she had looked both ways. All her 
heart reaches were for earth and those she loved, while 
those of her brain were for the great beyond, anxious 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


15 


and feverish at times to cross the line and settle with the 
mysteries. She thought that her heart ties were the 
stronger and therefore she still lived, and now hoped for 
complete recovery. With the first balmy waves of spring 
she had been carried to the window, where she sat for 
hours, watching the bursting of the buds, and listening 
to the love stories of the birds, as they told them in 
sweetest song. Spring passed and summer came, but 
she gathered but little strength. Her physician advised 
that she be taken to the seaside, and her brother eagerly 
complied with the advice. He had been her nurse in all 
her sickness. They were alone in the world. Father, 
mother, sisters and brothers, were all gone. As she 
ceased speaking, Grace bent down and kissed her. 

“Tift me. I must return that,” she said, as she 
struggled to rise from her reclining position. I raised 
her, when she put her hands on Grace’s cheeks, and then 
passionately kissed her, while the arms of Grace tenderly 
entwined themselves around the wasted form and pressed 
the invalid close to her heart. 

We returned to our seats. Introductions followed. 
Grace’s cheeks flushed and her eyes looked, to the floor, 
when Mr. McMillan, with much warmth of language, 
thanked her for the courtesy. Observing her embarass- 
ment he went to the forward part of the car, leaving his 
sister with us. She rested against Grace like a. kitten. 
And so we chatted, and chatted, for an hour. She then 
expressed a wish for her berth, saying — 

“Oh, I have sat up so long, and have been so 
happy. ’ ’ 

Her brother came and pick-ed her up in his strong 
arms, with a gentleness and ease indescribable, and pil- 
lowed her in her berth, seating himself opposite her. 


16 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Grace and I went to our original seats. The rain 
had been heavier near the sea, and there was not a par- 
ticle of dust. Turning to Grace, I said: 

‘‘You slandered our fat friend, who assured us the 
road would be free from dust.'’ 

“The elements aided him to tell the truth,’’ she 
replied. “ Had it not rained you would have been suffo- 
cated two hours ago. Besides, this is not his route. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How fruitful you are in defense. ’ ’ 

“ That is a happy accomplishment. Embarrassment 
is a fearful condition. I have never experienced its 
wretchedness. ’ ’ 

“Are you sure of that?’’ I asked, with a quizzical 
expression in my eye. Grace understood it, for she 
turned suddenly to the window and commenced finding 
fault with the barrenness of the land and the unattract- 
iveness of the country. 

Miss McMillan was all aglow when the train came 
to a stop at the beach. The last hour’s ride was along 
the shore. The great crested waves were constantly in 
view, and their roar could be heard above the noise of the 
train. A stiff breeze was blowing inward, and as she 
drank in the refreshing air, she seemed to gather strength 
with each breath. A few minutes were spent in gather- 
ing up our luggage, so that we were last to leave the 
car. Mr. McMillan started with his sister on his arm. 
As he stepped from the platform and reached up for the 
invalid, a crippled boy who was standing near, dropped 
his crutch and threw up both his arms as though he 
would have taken her. As she dropped into her brother’s 
arms, the cripple threw his hands around the folds of her 
dress. As Grace stepped from the platform, the boy 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


17 


reached for her capote and shawl, with both of which 
she parted. 

‘‘Grace,” I said, “don’t be so careless. Hold to 
your things. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Never mind. They are in safe hands, ’ ’ she replied. 

“Yes, Miss, they’re safe, hunkie safe,” said the 
cripple, as he reached for a basket I was carrying, but I 
refused to part with it, after my admonition to Grace. 
We got into a rickety old omnibus, which no doubt had 
done service in one of the great cities, until it was 
unworthy of confidence. 

“Look,” said Grace, nudging me in the side and 
pointing to the rear. 

There I saw the crippled boy, hopping along in the 
dust, in a vain endeavor to keep up with the omnibus. 
There was the usual reception committee, I suppose, on 
the veranda, but they seemed better mannered than at 
the fashionable resorts. The invalid attracted most 
attention, as her brother almost carried her on his arm. 
We were soon in our rooms. They were meagerly fur- 
nished. Everything was meager. As Grace took in the 
brief surroundings she remarked: 

“No doubt we are expected to live in the surf. We 
cannot live in these rooms. We were expected to bring 
our wardrobes to hold our wardrobes. ’ ’ 

“As we are not going to receive in our chambers, we 
can stretch lines across the rooms and hang our clothes 
on them. Oh, you will be miserable enough here,” I 
added. 

“Listen to me. Aunt Rebecca,” said Grace, with 
unusual earnestness. ‘ ‘ I have had more happiness on 
this trip thus far, than I had the entire last summer. I 

intend to continue in happiness, and feel that I will.” 

2 


18 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Then we* sat down on the two little chairs and crossed 
our hands on our laps, and, well, we yawned, and impa- 
tiently waited for our baggage. Neither spoke, yet I 
felt that our minds were traveling in the same path, and 
that one was not fault finding with our situation. To a 
rap at the door, Grace said *‘Come.^’ In stepped the 
crippled boy with the luggage Grace had given him. 

What is your name,’’ she asked. 

Racketts, please mum.” 

‘ ' Racketts, ’ ’ repeated Grace. 

'‘The same,” replied the boy. 

“Why, that is a strange name. Racketts what? ” 
she inquired. 

' ' Racketts nothing. ’ ’ 

' ' Just plain Racketts ? ’ ’ 

“That’s all.” 

“ Do you live in the hotel? ” she continued. 

“ I can’t say I does, yet I does.” 

' ' Then you do, and again you do not. That is a 
contradiction. ’ ’ 

“I guess it is. I stay here when I wants to,” 
explained the cripple. “ Most of the time I would 
rather be with them. ’ ’ 

' ' Is this your home ? ’ ’ 

“ No, Miss, I lives in New York when I doesn’t live 
here. I comes here to work, and can do better here in 
the summer time than there. Then, the Major, he likes 
to be here. Jist as soon as the weather gits warm, he’s 
askin’ all the time to come down here.” 

“ Who is the Major ? ” asked Grace. 

“He’s awaitin’ for me at the door,” to which he 
stepped and opened. There stood a small Scotch terrier 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


19 


dog, who reared up and commenced pawing the air at the 
appearance of his master. 

‘'It’s not healthy for the Major in New York when 
the dog law is goin’ , ’ ’ continued the boy. ‘ ‘ Three years 
ago they had him up two times and was going to drown 
him. It took all my money to save him, so I had to go 
out of the city with him, and I came here. I left this 
year before they started the law. ’ ’ 

“ Why, you must love him.” 

‘ ‘ I does. ’ Cause why ? He loves me. ’ ’ 

She handed him half a dollar. The boy looked at 
it and then at Grace. Did so again and again, and then 
said: 

‘‘It’s too much, mum.” 

“ No,” replied Grace, “ I allow you that for carry- 
ing the luggage. ’ ’ 

“Thankee, mum, but I thought it was too much. 
If you ever want anything done, send for Racketts,” 
saying which he scraped himself out of the room. When 
the door closed I said: 

“ Grace, you have commenced your foolish actions.” 

“ I have, have I ? ” she ansvrered. 

“Yes. Why have you attached to yourself that 
little vagrant ? He will haunt these rooms in the hope 
of getting another half-dollar. Nuisances will gather 
around us fast enough, without our courting them.” 

“Aunt Rebecca, I wish something would open your 
mental eyes. Your discernment is in a constant state of 
stupor. That boy is not a vagrant — would not, and 
could not be one. He has in him all the qualities and 
traits which make up splendid manhood. Has a brain 
uncultivated, and a heart thoroughly developed. The 
former is fallow ground, the latter in the highest state of 


20 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


cultivation, bearing constantly the richest fruit. Did 
you observe his face the moment Miss McMillan got from 
the train? She dropped into the poor little cripple’s 
heart, and in his love he stretched out his arms to care 
for her. There is an angel in that boy. Not a crippled 
angel, but perfect as God makes them. When it is best 
and rarest, what a poor thing the tenement is in which 
the soul lives. More happiness. Aunt Rebecca. What 
a delightful place this will be. We shall need Racketts, 
frequently.” 

We were too late for dinner, so we dressed for 
supper. There were but few people in the supper room, 
and most of them were invalids. 

I noticed one old couple of distinguished mien and 
presence, who, I thought, were very necessary to each 
other. After supper Grace visited Miss McMillan. She 
found her in bed, cheerful as a cricket. Her heart is 
wonderfully healthy, and her body must grow strong. 
When Grace returned she entered the room in an absent 
minded manner, and I asked: 

‘ ' How is Miss McMillan ? ’ ’ 

” He’s well.” 

‘‘ What! ” I exclaimed. 

She blushed, looked annoyed, and replied: 

“Aunt Rebecca, you make yourself ridiculous. You 
have nothing in you but interrogation points. I was 
thinking of something else when you spoke — of poor, 
crippled Racketts. ’ ’ 

“So you were,” I replied, with a light laugh. “We 
shall need Racketts frequently while here. ’ ’ 

She, in return to my sally, laughed one of her sweet 
little chuckles. Then taking my hands she looked stead- 
ily into my face and said: 


OPENING EYELIDS. 


21 


' ' I cannot. Could I look into your heart as I do 
into your face, I might be able. One of these days I 
shall get a peep into your heart. A sigh will open the 
door. ^ 

‘‘There you are mistaken. My heart is nothing 
but a lump of putty, and just as expressionless. There 
will be no sigh. Be still now, and I will tell you all 
about Miss McMillan and, and — ” 

“Her brother,” I interjected. 

“ No, I did not see him. I was going to tell you of 
his sister’s condition, but your mind and Mr. McMillan 
seem involved, and I will give you an opportunity to 
relieve yourself. What do you think of him ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What do I think of him ? Why should I have an 
opinion regarding him ? ’ ’ 

“ Why, my dear old aunt. You are wounded. The 
barbed shaft has penetrated your heart,” she said with a 
little laugh, touching my cheeks with her hands and 
turning my face to the dingy light of a kerosene lamp. 

“What nonsense ! ” Strange, I had to gather my 
thoughts. I was thinking of something else when you 
asked the question,” I replied. 

‘ ‘ Of Racketts, I suppose, ’ ’ she interrupted. 

“ No, he is not needed on my account. It is seldom 
I require a foil, and in this instance I certainly need 
none. I was thinking of you, and, well, in truth my 
thoughts were tangled, and I was asking myself .over 
and over again, the same question.” 

“What question so perplexed you. Tell me and I 
will give the answer. ’ ’ 

I gazed into her face a moment and then said : 

“ My thoughts were, ‘ where will this path lead ? ’ ” 


22 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘What path? What are you talking about? I 
beg you get clear of mystery and speak in plain 
words/’ she nervously replied. “To what do you 
refer? ” 

I remained silent, and we looked into each other’s 
faces. I felt that her heart was babbling like a brook, 
but the story was for the flowers which graced it and 
perfumed its whole. Then Grace in a semi-conscious 
manner said : 

“Where will this path lead? For the present we 
will not discuss it. It is dismissed until to-morrow, or 
next week, or, perhaps, forever.” 

She kissed me good-night. I was nervous and 
feverish, and it was hours before I fell asleep. 


CHAPTER IIL 


And like a lane of beams athwart the sea.^^ 

Grace was up before the sun, and I was as the dead 
— not even dreaming, so soundly I slept. I awoke with 
the words, ‘ ‘ dinner, ’ ' ‘ ‘ dinner, ’ ’ ringing in my ears. 
Grace was at the side of my bed, and, as I opened my 
eyes, saluted me with: 

‘‘Oh, you sluggard! Get up and drink in the 
glories of the sea and sky and air. ’ ’ 

I was soon out on the balcony. The vast expanse 
of water was gently undulating, with here and there a 
white cap, as though some monster of the deep had dis* 
turbed its otherwise comparative calm surface. The 
sky to the east was a rich saffron, paling to the west, 
where it was a delicate blue. The air tasted as if it had 
spent the night in a bath, and was fresh and purified. 
The landscape was horrid. To the north, sand, and an 
arm of the sea. The stunted pines and scrubby oaks 
which marked our route, were gone. A great bank of 
clouds which seems to be resting on the sea, closed the 
vision in that direction. To the west fields of sand with 
an occasional tuft of coarse grass, and beyond, the 
toboggan on which the sun slips down at close of day. 
On the south the monotony is broken. A rocky pro- 
monotorv reaches out into the sea. At its inward base 
there are green fields, adorned with cedar thickets, and 

23 


24 


SIX WKEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


miles away there is a fringe of woodland. Near the cedar 
thickets are little cottages, which look lost and forsaken, 
and seem as though they had stolen away from the out- 
skirts of some great city, and were pining to get back. 
Between the south and west points, and, apparently but 
a few miles away, there is a scattered growth of trees, 
over the tops of which can be seen a few chimney tops 
and a single church spire. As for the hotel, it is most 
properly named the ‘ ‘ Sphinx. ^ ’ There is not a particle 
of shade nor any green thing near it. Sand everywhere, 
and it sits on its loose foundations, a great board thing, 
which once might have had life, but which has been 
parched to death. 

'' Splendid, is it not? said Grace. 

'^Splendid ! Why, no. Were it not for that great 
throbbing sea, it would be desolation itself,’’ I replied. 

Oh, no. Not as desolate as I desire,” she replied. 

‘ ‘ It would be difficult to make it more so. ’ ’ 

She stood for a few moments, silent. Her eyes were 
on the great ocean, and her bosom was swelling in 
response to that of the mighty waves. 

” It lives, and has lived through all the centuries of 
the stars, and it will live until decay has consumed the 
earth itself. If there is vital principle to that which is 
inanimate, the sea possesses it.” Turning to me she 
continued: There is isolation on its wide expanse. 

Did you ever long to be alone ? To be in the center of 
silence, surrounded by outer darkness ? I have. I have 
yearned for it. I am moody this morning, and that is 
not good. But I have seen that sea hundreds of times, 
and have never been impressed by it as I am now. Oh> 
the sea ! — the grand, sublime, almost infinite sea ! ” 


BEAMS ATHWART THE SEA. 


25 


** Talk of it. I love to hear you/* I said as she 
paused. " 

No, no more. We will dismiss the sea from our 
minds. Do you observe that little village with its 
unpretentious church spire ? We will go there to wor- 
ship, provided we stay.** 

What do you mean by ‘‘provided we stay*’? I 
asked. 

“ I scarcely mean anything,** she replied. “ Some- 
thing — some incident — or some accident — or — well, 
something, may take us away. The probabilities are 
that that something will remain absent, as indeed it 
should, for if we do not stay here, we will go back to 
our city home and remain there. ’ * 

“Well, Grace, get out of your mood as quickly as 
possible.** Saying which, I left her gazing out on the 
sea, whose unrest was singing to the shore the same 
story it has told the ages, and which it will continue to 
tell until time shall be no more. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Make me a child again,** 

After breakfast there came a rap at the door, and I 
said ‘ ‘ Come in. ' ' The door opened and there stood 
Racketts holding by the hand one of the fairest, 
sweetest, dearest little human wonders I had ever seen, 
a little six year old girl. She was blonde, with large 
dark gray eyes, and a wealth of golden hair, hanging in 
masses over her shoulders ; was neatly but plainly 
dressed, and gazed into our faces with a look of amaze- 
ment. Racketts held her right hand, while at her side 
stood the ''Major,'’ unable to hold the left one, but 
attesting his devotion to her by occasionally licking it. 

"Come in,” said Grace, having noticed Racketts only. 

" I always come with her," said Racketts, which 
attracted Grace to a further observation of the visitors. 
Without a word she took the little girl by the hand and 
seated her on an excuse for a lounge, then took a seat at 
her side. Racketts and the Major stood near by. While 
Grace still gazed into the face of the child, Racketts 
said: 

' ' Her Ma does up all the laces and nice things for 
the ladies at the hotel, and I told her that I was sure 
you would have plenty to do up. 

' ' Does your mother wash ? ’ ’ asked Grace of the 


child. 


A CHILD AGAIN. 


27 


“ Yes, Miss, laces and nice things.** 

“ Where does your mother live ? ** 

“ In the cottage.** 

“Yes, Miss, in the cottage near the cedars. I will 
show you where it is,** put in Racketts. 

‘ ' What is your name ? * * 

‘ ‘ Mary Hastings. * * 

“Yes, but we all calls her Mamie,** said Racketts. 
“ Her Ma, and me and the old doctor and his wife, and 
Joe, and uncle Tom, and all of us calls her Mamie, *cept 
her sick pa, he always calls her Mary.** 

“Well, Mamie, or Mary, I like that name better,** 
said Grace, ‘ ‘ I am sure you are a dear, sweet child, and I 
want you to love me while I am here. * * 

‘ ‘ Oh, she does. I told her all about you before she 
went to bed last night, and she said that she loved you. 
Didn’t you, Mamie?” 

“Yes,** said the child. “We loved you last night 
and we loves you this morning too, and we do. * * 

Grace let go the child’s hand, and without a reply 
went into her own room. I heard her clear her throat 
as if there was a lump in it. Returning she took the 
little fair-haired child in her arms, kissed her time and 
again, and said: 

‘ ‘ Tell your mother that I am coming to see her. 
Racketts will show me the way. ’ ’ 

“That’s hunkie, isn’t it, Mamie? ” said Racketts, as 
he led the little one by the hand from the room, he on 
one side and the Major on the other; the latter, at the 
command of his master, reared himself and made a bow. 
As the door closed, Grace said: 

‘ ‘ That is your vagrant. * * 


28 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘"Yes,” I replied, '‘We will need him frequently 
while we remain here. ’ ' 

She gave her shoulders a little twist, but made no 
response. 

I wish I knew something about the McMillans. 
They are certainly refined, quiet people. His manner 
indicates a line of elegant ancestors. Grace says he is 
brainy. His devotion to his sister is evidence of the 
qualities of his heart. His face shows character in 
every line. Not a handsome man — his features are too 
strong for beauty. He is a commanding man. Yet, I 
am not competent to judge. My conclusions are not 
worth a straw. I wish I possessed Grace’s power. She 
reads character with unerring precision. I did not see 
anything good in that crippled boy. To me he was a 
castaway, a vagrant. Her perception and estimate of 
him were instantaneous and correct. Poor little fellow. 
Brief as has been his life, what sorrows may be hidden 
in it. What suffering, devotion, and, perhaps heroism 
he may have felt or exhibited. He quits his home in 
the city to save the life of his dog. There is a depth of 
affection in that incident. How incomprehensible is the 
human heart. All hopes, aspirations and desires are its 
offspring. It births our loves, our hates, our revenges ; 
prompts all actions whether they be good or evil ; sits in 
judgment and disposes of our destiny. How intense its 
longings, how varied its demands. In one instant it 
craves wealth until a seeming insatiate greed is satisfied. 
In another, the wildest pleasures with their attendant 
dissipations, until mind and body are wrecked. Or, 
again, fashion with her waiting maids, folly and vanity, 
sacrificing every ennobling trait, and debasing every 
virtuous impulse. But, why attempt a dissection of it ? 


A CHILD AGAIN. 


29 


It is enough that it is the home of faith, that force 
which comforts in the hour of trial and lifts the soul 
beyond earth, its sorrows and disappointments. Little 
things creep into it. That cripple boy fills his with a 
dog — at least it occupies a large part of it. There must 
be other things in it, and when next I meet him, I will 
try to discover what are the dog’s companions. And 
that grey-eyed, fair-haired child, is it possible that her 
young heart is filled with sorrow at the very threshhold 
of life? It were better perhaps, for all of us, did we 
start in life with the sponge touching our lips, but that 
is a terrible thought, for it calls to mind the tragedy of 
all the ages. 


CHAPTER V. 


The rain a deluge of shower — '^Can eyes talkf^^ 

It has rained almost constantly for five days. 
Dressing a little, eating too frequently and sleeping too 
much, have filled the weary hours. This monotonous 
routine has been broken by a business call from 
Racketts, more for reporting the condition of things 
generally^than anything else. One visit from the grey- 
eyed child, and quite a number of visits by Grace, 
(occasionally I accompanied her) to Miss McMillan’s 
room. Strange, she is improving under the disadvan- 
tageous conditions. 

It does not require the least exertion on the part of 
the clouds to drop their treasures. Looking to the east 
it seems that they dip themselves into the sea until they 
are loaded with water. On reaching the land an invisi- 
ble force gives them a squeeze, and they just pour. It 
does not come down in drops, but in streams. The sands 
have spongy properties and drink up the water as if 
each grain had a little mouth. There are no little 
rivulets coursing in all directions, nor full gutters, as in 
the city. Even the volumes thrown from the spouts, 
which the roofs feed, sink into the sand within ten feet. 
Grace has been alternately moody, or excessively 
animated, during this spell. The latter feeling is shown 
when she has spent an hour with Florence McMillan. 

80 


CAN EYES TALK? 


31 


She occasionally discusses the weather with malignant 
earnestness, and spends hours of silence, gazing out into 
the sea, where the clouds get their supplies. 

Racketts was here this morning. What a wonderful 
little compound of sense and heart he is. I said to him, 
‘‘ Racketts, have you a mother? 

“ That's what I have, and that's all," he answered. 

" Do you love her? " 

‘‘I do, hunkie. She couldn't get along without 
me. I supports her. She calls me her staff." 

" Why, how do you support her?" I inquired. 

"By workin'. I works days and I works nights, 
and I never tires, cause she's always with me." 

"Always with you ? I do not understand you." 

"I don't mean that way. I mean I'm always 
thinkin' about her." 

"And that keeps you from getting tired? " 

"Yes, Miss, and the Major too." 

"What has the Major to do with your work ? " 

" Oh, he keeps up the cheerful. You would almost 
die laughin' , if you were ever so tired, to see that dog 
show sense. He's quiet in the presence of strangers, as 
you sees him now but he's mighty lively when he and 
me’s alone." 

" How did you get hurt? " I asked. 

" Mother says that's a family secret," he replied, 
turning his face from me. 

‘ ‘ Then I do not want to know. How old are you, 
and how long have you been supporting your mother? " 

"I'm eleven next winter. Ever since I could use 
my crutch well. That's three years ago." 


32 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘ I would dearly like to know your mother. You 
must give me her address, and when I return to New 
York I will call on her/' 

'‘Thanks, Miss. I’d be so glad, and she’d be so 
glad. She’s not ugly but pretty, and good and sweet 
like the other young lady.” 

' ' Do you mean Miss Grace ? ’ ’ 

"Yes, Miss, is that her name? May I call her Miss 
Grace?” 

"Yes, you may call her Miss Grace. I am Miss 
Rebecca. So now you know our names.” 

"Thanks, Miss Rebecca. I must go now. I wish 
you knowed the Major well.” 

' ‘ I will learn to know him. Always bring him with 
you. Good morning.” 

"Good morning. Miss Rebecca,” and then turning 
to the Major — " Manners! ” 

The little dog reared on his hind legs and hopped off 
with his master. When they reached the door, both 
turned and each bowed. 

Racketts is crippled in the right hip joint and knee. 
From the hip down the leg is stiff and he moves as if 
he were dragging his right side along. They had scarcely 
left me when Grace bounded into the room. 

"Well, you have had the vagrant with you,” she 

said. 

"Yes,” I replied, "and a dear little vagrant he is. 
Grace, I beg a truce on the vagrant matter. What do 
you want me to promise, with the understanding tUat 
you are never to refer to that unhappy expression of 
mine? I promise not to be offensive to you in word, 
deed, or even in thought, if you will never refer to it 
again.” 


CAN EYES TAEK ? 


33 


‘‘You promise that you will be good, and let me do 
all that fancy or caprice may suggest — commend all my 
follies, and second all my schemes either in love or war ? ’ * 

“ Yes, I will do anything or everything, will report 
you absolutely perfect. I cannot tell you how much 
each reference to it wounds me.’’ 

‘ ‘ Hold up your lips that we may covenant. ’ ^ 

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me 
again and again. 

‘ ‘ By this act we have sealed the covenant. Remem- 
ber, I am to be obeyed hereafter, not you. You are not 
to have opinions when they conflict with mine.” 

“ Oh, I may have opinions, but you must reason me 
out of them as you always have.” 

“ That reply is almost a violation of the covenant,” 
said Grace. 

“ Well, then, the covenant goes without qualification. 
How is Miss McMillan this morning ? ’ ^ 

“Auntie, she is the only living thing about the mis- 
erable place.” 

‘ ‘ Is her brother dead ? ” I interrupted. 

“There, you have violated the covenant,” she said 
with stern, precise voice. 

“ Why, ’no! ” I exclaimed in surprise. 

“Yes, you are offensive, which you promised not to 

be.” 

“Why, I thought you had lost all interest in him, 
living or dead.” 

“ So I have, in a sense I am not able to explain. It 
is not, however, necessary for you to remind me of it.” 

“Grace, dear, do not deceive yourself. You cer- 
tainly cannot deceive me. But I will live up to the 

3 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE, 


covenant, and never refer to him unless you invite. I 
think it were an easy matter to lose him, ’ ' I added. 

In an instant the blood left her face, and she stood 
for a moment looking into my eyes most intently. Then, 
without saying a word, she passed to her room. I was 
left with my thoughts, and the question ‘‘Where will 
this path lead ? ' ' pressed itself with increased force. 
There was an echo in my brain, but no answer came. 
Before I was aware of her presence she was at my side. 

“Aunt Rebecca,” she said, in the most serious tone 
I ever heard her use, “ I have nothing to conceal from 
you. A strange visitor has crept into my heart, whom I 
scarcely know how to treat. Without design, or desire, 
or consent, George McMillan has settled there, and this 
moment fills it to complete fullness. In doing so he has 
not crowded out other loves, dear to me as my life. On 
the contrary he has brought a sister with him and given 
her to me. My stores of affection are richer than before 
I knew him, and I now possess a wealth of love for 
which I have longed, but feared would never be mine.” 

“ That will do, dear. Say no more. You must not 
go farther on this path for the present,” I said, as I 
almost gathered her in my arms. 

“No farther?” she whispered, while her eyes 
apparently gazed at vacancy. 

“Yes, no farther, my dear. We must stop right 
here for the present.” 

‘ ‘ How can I stop ? What barriers can I put up ? 
This tenant has preempted, and I am already in his pos- 
session. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, Grace dear, why do you talk so ? Have you 
made a confession of this love to him?” I pleadingly 
asked. 


CAN BYES TALK ? 


35 


‘' No, and to other than father and yourself, would 
not for all this world,” she replied, straightening up and 
assuming one of her dignified poses. 

“ What has he said to you? ” I asked. 

“ Of love? Not one word.” 

“ Grace, you confound me. No declaration? ” 

‘ ‘ None. In all our conversation no subject has been 
more foreign than that of love.” 

‘ ‘ Then you surmise he loves you ? ” 

‘ ‘ I surmise nothing. I know that he does, for my 
heart tells me so. His eyes are worth a thousand 
tongues, and my heart is worth millions of them. ’ ^ 

‘ ‘ Grace, you have made me very unhappy. I fear 
that your heart has controlled your eyes and that you are 
blindly wading in the unknown. ’ ’ 

” Not I. Had he declared his love, I might have 
doubted; as he is silent, I believe.” 

” Oh, this is fearful — fearful. I fear for you, dear,” 
I almost sighed. ” Will it last ? ” I exclaimed more than 
asked. 

“Will it last?” she repeated, “yes, until eternity 
ends. ’ ’ 

“ Grace, dear, I know not how to advise you. These 
heart questions are the severest of all problems. How 
few solve them aright? What shall we do?” I asked, 
almost in despair. 

“As for me, I shall continue to love. I shall hus- 
band the sweetest comfort my heart has ever known. 
You may do the repining. Oh, a pretty watch you have 
kept over your charge. You have permitted me to do 
the most foolish of all things,” she said, clasping me in 
her arms and kissing me. 


36 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Grace, cease. I am suffering enough without the 
addition of your raillery. What will your father say ? 
What will he do ? How can you confess your love to 
him ? It would look as though the love were all on your 
side. Your father would not understand eyes-talk. ' ’ 

“ He did once. It was when my mother was a girl, 
and he impatiently watched every glance of her eyes, 
which told him the story of her heart. Auntie, he has 
not forgotten the girlhood eyes of my mother. Time and 
again he has said to me, 'yours are your mother’s eyes 
when I first met her. There was a world of meaning in 
her every glance. ’ ’ ’ 

"Well, dear, it may be that I am mistaken and that 
he will comprehend eyes-talk. But we must inform 
your father of the state of affairs. Perhaps it were 
better we waited until Mr. McMillan becomes more pro- 
nounced — until he proposes to you." 

" There is no necessity for that. Mr. McMillan will 
tell father all about it, and ask him to give him (Mr. 
McMillan) his daughter. ’ ’ 

" Grace, you dumfound me. What does this mean ? 
You tell me that he has never uttered a word of love to 
you. Now you tell me that he is going to ask your 
father for you. It is all incomprehensible to me." 

"We had a pleasant talk this morning, in which he 
spoke of a visit to New York. If his sister continues to 
improve, and he feels safe to leave her in my care, he 
will go to New York within ten days. He expressed a 
wish to meet my father and I gave him father’s business 
address. It is possible that I will give him a letter of 
introduction. It may aid him in his business." 

"Aid him in his business! Is he so confiding as to 
tell you his business affairs ? ’ ' 


CAN EYES TALK ? 


87 


‘‘No, he has not; but I think I can safely infer 
what takes him to New York/' 

“Well, you abound in assumption. I hope you are 
correct. That would relieve our unpleasant situation. ' ' 

“ Use the singular pronoun. I am not unpleasantly 
situated. I am entirely satisfied. I think my condition 
is good and wholesome and greatly to be desired. ' ' 

“ You are then more fortunate than I, for I am filled 
with concern about you." 

“ Well, a truce to this subject. It is getting thread- 
bare. Let me tell you about Miss McMillan. She walks 
about her room, (you know what a dingy little hole it is) 
singing like a bird, and calls the weather charming. 
Holds her hands out of the window until they are spat- 
tered with big raindrops; said to me that within a fortnight 
she would have the strength of a tigress, and mayhap 
tear me up for very love. When she had wearied herself 
she lay down and asked me to bring my chair to her side. 
She threw her arms around my neck, kissed me, and 
whispered in my ear the word 'sister,' and then buried 
her face in the pillow. ' ' 

“ Oh, Grace, I thought you had dismissed that sub- 
ject. Let's talk about Racketts. Did you know that 
his mother is living ? ' ' 

“Why, yes, of course. I kneiv that weeks ago. 
Racketts and I are confidants, ’ ' she said laughing. ' ' He 
has told me all the story of his life, except how he got 
hurt, and the cause of the death of his baby sister. He 
avoided talking on those subjects, saying that only he 
and his mother talked together on them. He wept while 
he spoke, and I dried his eyes and comforted him with 
the assurance that I admired him much for his devotion 
to his mother. I infer that his father was a dissipated, 


38 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


cruel man, who greatly abused his wife, and, perhaps, on 
some drunken occasion, inflicted the injury on Racketts 
from which he suffers. He had little to say about his 
father, and there was no word of love in what he did 
say. Poor, little cripple, he is all heroics. Did he talk 
to you of his mother ? He is as full of devotion as a 
dervish at his shrine, and expresses his love for her in 
simple, eloquent tenderness, which few of larger growth 
and cultivation can command. But then, you remember 
you called him a — 

“ Don’t break the covenant,” I screamed. 

” I will not,” she replied with a laugh as she started 
for the veranda. 


CHAPTER VL 


“ And once the young heart of a maiden is stolen^ 
the maiden herself will steal after it soon^ 

We have had ten days of ugly weather. There have 
been patches of sunshine alternating with copious 
showers. Grace has taken advantage of many of the 
little lulls in the storm. She has done the beach for a 
mile or more, and bathed several times. I have not ven- 
tured from the hotel. I learned from Racketts that she 
had been at the Hastings cottage each day. The little 
fellow wonders why I don’t accompany her, and I 
could offer no excuse except the weather. She has not said 
a word to me as to what she discovered there. I must wait 
her pleasure. It will come bye and bye. I have observed 
that in coming from one of these visits she passes quietly 
to her room and lies down. This morning she told me that 
I would have to visit Miss McMillan oftener, remarking 
that she had not time. Last evening Mr. McMillan 
came from New York, He and Grace were together for 
an hour. When she came to her room, she appeared 
worried and dissatisfied. I fear their relations have 
been disturbed. When she met him on the veranda this 
morning, his salutation was more formal, and her recog- 
nition more dignified and reserved. He was courtly, 
but cold ; she polite, but indifferent. I am sure his eyes 
are not talking as much as they were. Poor Grace, 

39 


40 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


what a lesson. I fear that there will ever remain a 
shadow in her heart — the ghost of an unrequited love. 
She is coming. I hear her footsteps. 

‘'You are always writing. Do you never tire? 
That diary of yours will make a work as voluminous as 
an encyclopedia. What do you find to write about? 
Everything is so miserably stupid that I am at a loss to 
know of what you can possibly make a note that will be 
interesting. ' ’ 

“ I do not lack material,” I replied. 

‘‘Well, go on. Don’t permit my presence to 
disturb you in your pretentious work. I promised to 
read it when we return to the city, but really you must 
absolve me. It is enough to bear the fearful stupidity 
of this place.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, the reading of it shall depend on your 
pleasure. Sit down. I do .so want to talk to you. How 
is Miss McMillan ? ” I had not visited her for two days. 

‘‘ Much better. Nearly as strong as you or I. She 
is fleshing up wonderfully, too, and has a voracious 
appetite. She does not eat, she devours.” 

‘ ‘ And her brother, how is he ? ” 

“Well, I suppose, though I speak without advice.” 

“You were with him last evening?” 

“Yes, for a few minutes,” she carelessly replied. 

“ For an hour at least,” I said. 

“ Was it so long? It did not seem so.” 

‘ ‘ Grace, I have been waiting for you to tell me of 
his visit to New York. Did he see your father? ” 

“ Yes. He was not largely communicative and said 
but little. I fear father was in one of his moods. You 
know what they are. Mr. McMillan assured me that he 
was highly pleased with his interview, but, well, I would 


HEART OF MAIDEN STOLEN. 


41 


rather he had not gone. No, I am not. I am glad he 
has met him.’’ 

She was toying with a tassel while she talked, and 
tapped a tattoo on the window pane. 

‘ ' I observed that greetings between you this morn- 
ing were not so cordial. ’ ’ 

“ Did you? ” she replied with a smile. You are 
growing quite observant.” 

” Come, Grace,” taking her hand, “tell me what 
has occurred. You told me the day he left for New 
York that he inquired of you as to the disposition of 
your father, and that his eyes talked volumes. He has 
seen your father. What has caused the change in his 
manner ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, it is nothing; it is merely a shadow passing 
and it will soon be gone.” 

“ Is your father the shadow ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

“From Mr. McMillan’s manner when he met me. 
The tenderness was gone and in its stead dignified defer- 
ence. However, he could not make his eyes tell 
falsehoods. They were as full of heart fire as when he 
went to New York. They spoke plainer than words 
that his manner was forced and unnatural. Were he to 
follow the promptings of his heart, he would never be 
out of my presence. I can imagine his interview with 
father. With measured sentences he told his love for 
me. Then, you can imagine father’s surprise,” — and 
she burst into a hearty laugh. ‘ ‘ I can guess what was 
his first thought. It reflected on you. ‘ Why has 
Rebecca permitted this ? ’ Oh, he will hold you to a 
fearful accountability. ’ ’ 


42 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Grace, you are the most wearing person that 
lives, I said, in half anger. 

^'It is all your fault, my dear old auntie. You 
know you should have had particular care of my heart, 
and prevented its getting lost.'' In another instant she 
was out of the room. 

I sat down, weary and almost heart-sick, and gave 
myself up to moodiness. What excuse could I fashion 
for this disagreeable adventure? None. I had to 
acknowledge to myself that I was aware of every step of 
the road, and had failed to interpose an earnest or even 
a mild protest. I was as much in fault as Grace herself. 
Grace returned and instantly appreciating my dejection, 
said : 

‘ ‘ Have no fears my good old dear. This is my 
battle and I will win it. The shadow will soon pass 
and eternal sunshine take its place. Father is investi- 
gating. He is on a scent of discovery, and in a short 
time he will have verified Mr. McMillan's character and 
worth, and then will come a benediction. Notwith- 
standing he approves, he will never cease scolding you 
for permitting me to have my own way. You should 
have sounded an alarm signal, and, as I take all your 
advice, I should have been saved." 

" Grace, don't add to my suffering. I am really 
miserable." 

" My dear aunt, don’t feel hurt at my talk. It 
is all humor, but I will not indulge in it now.- You had 
no more to do with bringing about this situation than 
had the man in the moon, and you were just as power- 
less to prevent it. I will take care of it. And now, I 
am tired of love and its affairs. We will talk of some- 
thing else. Did you know I was out driving? Yes. 


HEART OF MAIDEN STOLEN. 


43 


Had an elegant ride. The old fishermen, I met several 
of them while they were washing their nets, say that we 
are going to have a spell of beautiful weather, and that 
we will all be sighing for rain before another drop falls. 
So we may set ourselves down to the enjoyment of sand, 
water and sun. * ' 

'‘Where did you drive? I asked in a mechanical 
manner more to relieve myself than for information. 

"To the cottage," she answered. 

"You mean to the home of the Hastings's? " 

"Yes." 

" What did you find there ?" 

" A woman, two children, and two men. One of 
the latter was a visitor, like myself. He lives at this 
hotel, and you no doubt have seen him frequently, as 
have I. By the bye, I have made the acquaintance of 
quite a number of people, and this, too, without your 
consent. That was not prudent I admit, but I must 
know these people with whom I am constantly coming in 
contact. One gentleman to whom I was introduced was 
forward enough to make particular inquiry about you, 
asked me who you were. I replied, ' She is Miss Pro- 
priety, of New York City, a most gracious and valued 
friend of mine. ’ I was not going to tell him you were 
my aunt. He would have immediately concluded that 
you antedated the hills. He expressed a wish to know 
you, and added that you were an adorable creature. If 
you will primp up nicely, I shall take pleasure in pre- 
senting him." 

" Who is Mr. Impertinence ?" I asked. 

" Oh, he’s a Mr. Morning-glory, or Mr. Sunflower, 
or Mr. Primrose, or some other flowery name, which for 
a moment has escaped my memory. You called my 


44 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


attention to him a few days ago, as we were entering the 
dining hall. You remember that slim, long-legged, 
crop-haired fellow, whose presence was made known to 
you by a wave of perfume which swept from his care- 
fully kept person, just as we were going to dinner 

“ Did you say that he made inquiry about me 

''Yes, and further said that you were an adorable 
creature. ' ' 

" Grace, don’t you dare to introduce that fool.” 

''But you must know him. He is a curiosity and 
you can employ idle moments by permitting him to 
entertain you.” 

'' I will not know him. He makes me uncomfort- 
able when I am compelled to pass him. His eyeglass is 
a horror to me, and he stares at me as if I were some 
strange beast. ’ ’ 

'' Rather say an idol. He wants to worship you.” 

'' Grace, as you love me, spare me the imposition of 
an acquaintanceship. He’s horrid.” 

''My dear aunt,” replied Grace, in ironical tones, 
'' you are the very seat of prejudice. You have formed 
a dislike to this excellent person, merely because he 
ogles you through a single eyeglass. Did he use two, it 
is altogether probable he would not be offensive. He is 
dying to attest his adoration. Now, what good and 
sufficient reason have you for not giving him an 
opportunity ? None. You must know him. You have 
such a happy faculty of making worthless things serve 
some good purpose, that I am sure you can make useful 
even that nonentity. Have you observed his mother? 
She is called an invalid, and takes great pleasure in 
setting forth all her ailings to the willing ears she meets. 
I have heard her ' tale of woe ’ and have concluded that 


HEART OF MAIDEN STOLEN. 


45 


she is sick from indolence — nothing else is the matter 
with her. She is an ignorant bundle of absurdities, con- 
stantly doing or saying something which makes her 
ridiculous. I have really courted her for no other 
purpose than to enjoy her blunders. The son is the 
veriest noodle I have ever met. He is a pure type of 
mawkish inanity, and drawls and whines as though he 
were the care of the world. His mother dotes on him 
and he is the burden of all her talk. I am familiar with 
his life, as seen by his mother’s eyes, from his boyhood 
to his present callow age. Even his infancy is familiar 
to me, for the old lady has told me of his odd pranks 
while drawing nourishment from the maternal fountain. 
To her he has been a wonder from his first breath, and 
were he to die the mother would not be satisfied unless 
old terra firma were to go into convulsions. ’ ’ 

‘ ^ Grace, I do not wish to make the acquaintance of 
either,” I said. 

‘ ‘ But you must, ” she replied emphatically. “You 
are the scribe of this trip, and it is necessary that you 
should be familiar, slightly, with these two people, that 
you may the better assign them their roles in the farce, 
or melodrama, or whatever it may be, that is daily played 
here. You are not only the scribe, but stage manager, 
and it is your duty to cast the players. ’ ’ 

“What are you talking about, Grace? You just 
rattle away in meaningless phrases until my brain is in a 
whirl.” 

' ‘ Why, my dear, life everywhere, and under all 
circumstances, is a farce, a comedy, a drama or a tragedy. 
Our visit to the beach is one of its scenes, and as I have 
made up my mind to play leading lady, out of the 
motley crowd you must cast the rest of the characters.” 


46 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


'‘Grace, stop your nonsense, and talk sense for a 
moment. ^ ^ 

‘ ' I am not talking nonsense, but fact. There is 
another party to whom you shall be introduced. I have 
forgotten his name if I ever heard. Racketts calls him 
'Uncle Tom,' and Mrs. Hastings speaks of him as the 
'good old father.' He, too, is a character. I will not 
attempt to describe him other than to say that he is the 
opposite of the Primroses. That is the name of the 
delectable young man who adores you. Uncle Tom is 
in the ministry, in a local way. We will need a chaplain 
before the play closes, and he will do." 

" For a wedding," I asked. 

" No, for a death." 

As she uttered these words her whole manner 
changed. A sigh, as if born of an ache, came from her 
breast, and without explanation she went to her room. 
I did not follow. Unconsciously I kept repeating, "For 
a death. ’ ' 


CHAPTER VIL 


^'Squeezing out sea water P 


Yesterday afternoon we had a terrible thunderstorm. 
The morning was extremely warm and sultry. At noon 
a stiff blow came from the sea, which increased in 
violence each minute, until it was almost a tornado. 
Soon after five o’clock the waves were in their most por- 
tential power. They rolled in until the hotel was 
surrounded with water. The waves swept over the 
lower veranda and entered the doors of the first floor. 
They struck the sides of the building as if they were 
great hammers. The wildest alarm was created among 
the inmates. With but a few exceptions all the guests 
were intensely agitated. I was much excited, but kept 
my room so as not to make an ‘ ‘ exhibition ’ ’ of myself, 
as Grace would say. Once I was called from it. A maid 

of Mrs. Primrose urged me to visit Mrs. P , and calm 

her if possible, lest she die of excitement. I found her 
lying upon a bed, greatly exhausted, and alarmed 
beyond description. Her son was at her side, a great 
booby, who added to his mother’s distress by lamenta- 
tions and upbraidings. He was affectionate and 
heartless at the same moment. Returning her embraces 
he chided her for bringing him to the coast where the 
nasty waves would drown him. As I entered, Mrs. 
Primrose exclaimed : 


47 


48 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


^‘Save him — save him, save my dear boy ! Let me 
drown but save my dear boy.’^ He turned his white 
simpering face to me and whined. 

‘‘Yes, I want to be saved. Have they got boats 
yet ? They promised to take me away in a boat — to 
take me where there’s land. Are all the people saved 
but me ? ” 

I paid no attention to his whine, but turned to his 
mother and said : 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Primrose, if there were serious danger at 
any time, it is gone. The wind has slackened and the 
waters are receding. No one has gone from the hotel. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank God ! ’ ’ she exclaimed as she clasped her 
hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling. 

‘*Is that true?” asked her son, first disengaging 
himself from his mother. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“ Ma, get up. You worry me so. We needn’t be 
afraid if the water is going back,” he said, as he 
attempted to raise her head from the pillows. 

As I was leaving the room he quit his mother and 
came to my side. 

“You are sure that the water is going back?” he 
again asked. 

“Yes, it is,” I replied. 

A mother’s love is the blindest of passions, and it 
is well that it is. Were not some one blind to our faults 
and our weaknesses, we should be beyond pity. 

Grace did not exhibit any alarm. Most of the time 
she was in company with Mr. McMillan. I presume 
that his assurance was the secret of her calm. They 
remained on the lower veranda until the advancing 
waters drove them to the second story. Occasionally 


SQUEEZING OUT SEA WATER. 


49 


she came to my room to assure me that the danger was 
not imminent, and when the winds abated came to me 
to say that the waters would soon recede. Thus, I was 
enabled to comfort the Primroses. It was midnight 
when she came to her bed, and was asleep long before 
I was. 

When morning came I was first up. She was sleep- 
ing soundly. She had darkened her room before 
retiring, and it was still night to her. The opening day 
was lovely, save the dampish appearance of the sands. 
The ocean’s waves, in receding, left a slimish cast on 
them. There was not a cloud to be seen, and vision 
was lost to the east in water and sky. No sail was in 
sight, except mutton legs near the shore, and they were 
rocking on the still turbulent waves. The sea looked 
like a waste, and the ether an expanse of idleness. A 
buoy a mile out, tossed on the top of the waves as if it 
were at play. After breakfast Grace informed me that 
we would take a walk on the beach, and she thought it 
would do Miss McMillan good were she to accompany 
us. She ought to get clear occasionally of that stuffy 
room. The air this morning would operate like an 
elixir. She left me for Miss McMillan. In a few 
minutes she returned. 

I am provoked. I had Miss McMillan ready for 
a stroll, when her brother interfered, expressing the 
wish that she would not attempt it. The sands were 
too damp. That was enough. She begged me to 
excuse her.” 

‘ ‘ Grace, ’ * I replied, ‘ ‘ her brother is the better judge. 
It is too damp for her to walk on the beach. The sand 
must be saturated to ooziness. * ’ 

4 


60 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘ I will not argue the matter. I know that it is 
not,” she said. ” I have spent half an hour testing it. 
The sand is as dry as powder. The Dynades would not 
have needed sieves could they have had this beach. 
Wind, and five hours of sunshine have taken the last 
drop of moisture out of it.” ”Come,” she said, pick- 
ing up some light wraps. 

We were soon at the feet of the tide. The breeze 
was gentle and steady. The only evidence left of the 
storm was the agitated sea. The billows swept in and 
forward far beyond their accustomed lines, and broke 
against the sands in sharp cracks, as though they were 
torn, rather than broken. We stood in silence watching 
them waste their strength, when I asked : 

” Grace, do you remember those lines by Alexander 
Smith, descriptive of the wedded sea and shore? ” 

” Of course I do. They were not intended for such 
a boisterous bridegroom as the sea is this morning. When 
Smith was inspired to his sweet thought, the waves 
were gently kissing the shore, and decking her tawny 
brow with shells. This morning the sea is an expiring 
fury, heaving its great billows, as though its heart were 
filled with unrest. There is no wooing in his embrace. 
His huge lips are pitiless. They lick the shore as the 
tiger does his prey. He has had a feast of blood, and 
the offerings he tenders to the shore this morning are 
pale, upturned faces, mangled human forms and wrecks 
of stout ships. How different the shore and the sea. 
The sea always restless, and at times furious. The shore 
patient, always the same, whether touched by gentle 
ripple, or beaten by the storm wave.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose that sigh you gave was sympathetic ? 
Your imagination has given vital life to the old shell- 


SQUEEZING OUT SEA WATER. 


61 


bestrewn thing, and you sigh as though the shore felt 
the lashings of the waves. ^ ^ 

‘ ' Say rather, wreck-bestrewn. It was not for the 
shore I sighed, but for you. Had you a thought other 
than for yourself during the storm? You are as devoid 
of sentiment as an empty shell. You see nothing but 
the waves and shore. They will always be here, but 
where are they who went to sea in ships ? ’ ’ 

Grace, you are severe — cruel. You do not mean 
what you say. I did not think of myself when the 
storm was raging. When you were absent from my 
mind, my thoughts went out to them who were at the 
mercy of the elements. I thought of their peril, and the 
fury which hurried them to their doom — of the aching 
hearts that would wait in vain for the return of the loved 
ones. With my mind’s eye I saw women at prayer — I 
saw widows and orphans and desolated homes. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh stay, auntie dear, I was unkind. It was an 
impulse that spoke and not a thought. I know the depths 
and the virtue of your heart. It is always aglow with 
sympathy and melting with tenderness. Human suffer- 
ing awakens its energies and human despair intensifies 
all its capabilities. You must pardon my rude, unfeeling 
speech.” 

” Well, Grace, I know you did not intend to wound, 
but you are terribly given to thoughtless utterance that 
is barbed, though it is not poisoned. Were I you, or 
rather were you I, there would be a careful guarding of 
that unruly member, the tongue. ’ ’ 

‘ * Hereafter, I will. Has this place any charm for 
you?” 

”Only as your interests are involved,” I replied. 


52 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘Then you are on an altar of sacrifice. We may 
leave it soon,” she carelessly remarked. 

“When,” I asked. 

“ Oh, that will depend entirely on circumstances, to 
which all people are subjected. Sometimes I feel like 
quitting here instantly, and then, again, I think I could 
live here forever.” 

“Each day, Grace,” I replied, “you are getting 
more difficult to understand. ' ’ 

“Of that, I am glad. If there are people I envy 
they are those who are called enigmas. To be read as if 
you were an open book is disgustingly unpleasant. I 
wish I were past finding out. However, I am utterly 
destitute of the art of concealment. I am full of blurts, 
and am constantly doing something or saying something 
which betrays that which I most desire should remain 
hidden. I cannot dissemble, and people read me with 
the ease they do a pica printed page. Why, even you, 
auntie, who make no pretention to acute acumen, read 
my innermost thoughts. ' ’ 

‘ ‘ There you are mistaken, my dear. On the con- 
trary, as I just said, daily you are getting more difficult 
to comprehend. Would you like to return to the city ? ” 

“ No, I would not. I am waiting for something to 
occur, ’ ’ she replied. 

‘ ‘ What something ? ” 

“Any something.” 

She turned, as she closed her laconic reply, and went 
along the shore in the direction of the Hastings cottage. 
I would dearly love to know what takes her to that cot- 
tage so frequently. Have asked a number of times, and 
always get the same answer — “nothing.” There is 


SQUEEZING OUT SEA WATER. 


53 


something. She is a daily visitor, always in the morning 
hour, and not infrequently later in the day. 

During that tedious spell of rain, she took advantage 
of each patch of sunshine to reach the cottage, often 
using a coupd. That quaint old man whom Racketts 
calls ‘‘Uncle Tom,’’ is also a constant visitor. Grace 
found him there on her first visit, and they have grown 
quite intimate — it seems to me confidential. A number 
of times I have seen them isolated from all company, 
talking, “Uncle Tom’’ doing the most of it, and she the 
most patient and interested of listeners. In response to 
my inquiry “who he is,’’ she replied, “ He is a very good 
old body — an old Methodist — a type of those men who 
carried the doctrines of Wesley over the great west.’’ 
She feared, however, that I was so “churchy’’ that I 
would not be able to appreciate him. Yesterday after- 
noon, just as the storm was entering on its furious 
humor, I went to where they were standings to say to 
Grace that we had better go to our rooms. She was 
listening with devouring attention to a description he was 
giving of what he called the “early itinerancy.’’ As he 
talked of the sufferings, privations, piety and triumphs 
of those he termed the pioneer preachers, my heart took 
on a glow that it had never felt before. He claimed 
inspiration for them — said they possessed the baptism of 
fire, and although they were rude, unlettered men, as 
were the fishermen of Galilee, they had God on their 
side, and therefore conquered wherever they went, sub- 
duing the heart of men while setting up the cross in 
every wooded slope, and altars at every fireside. As I 
led Grace away I saw that her eyes were suffused with 
tears. Reaching our rooms, I said : 

“ You find much delight in the company of Father 


54 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Tom, and I do not wonder at it. I don’t know that I 
ever felt more comfortable religious sentiment than while 
listening to him. ’ ’ 

“ Why, of course, you never did. Just think for a 
moment of the poor crusts of the Bread of Tife we receive 
at our pretentious altars ; think of the formality with 
which they are given, and the utter absence of heart life 
in us who receive them. Then imagine ‘ Uncle Tom’ 
administering. With your heart and soul in unison, he 
holds you up to the bleeding side of the Master, until 
you feel the water and the blood pouring onto and into 
you. I am so happy. God is so good, and my Savior is 
so tender and loving. ’ ’ 

With a kiss she left me. 

Uncle Tom is a strong character. In his mature 
manhood days he must have been a physical giant. He 
is over six feet now, though sixty 3^ears of age. He has 
large coarse features, which are softened by the most 
benignant expression. His mouth is wide, with the 
under lip partly covering the upper. I had passed him 
many times before last evening. There was always a 
respectful deference, but never so much as a bow. On 
the veranda, in the halls, sitting, standing or walking, 
when he is alone, he invariably hums through his nose. 
He seems to be burdened with but one air, ‘ ‘ The Home 
of the Soul. ’ ’ Two weeks ago, when coming from bath- 
ing, we passed him. I called Grace’s attention to the 
bee-like noise, at the same time making a slight compar- 
ison not entirely complimentary. She grew indignant in 
an instant, called me wicked, and hoped that no special 
providence, in wrath, would overtake me. 

She did not go as far as the cottage, but returned to 
where she left me. 


SQUEEZING OUT SEA WATER. 


55 


“ I want you to go with me to the cottage.'' 

I was busy with my own thoughts and did not 
answer her promptly. 

Did you hear me ?" she asked. 

“Yes. When? Now?" 

“ No, not now. I will tell you when. There is an 
angel in that cottage." 

^ ‘ Grace, I wish you would give up finding angels. 
You are constantly discovering them. I believe you 
know where there are half a dozen in New York City. I 
fear you will be over supplied one of these days. 
Besides, you seem to lose comfort when you discover one. ’ ' 

“ It is well somebody is able to discover them. The 
world would be a wretched place without angels. Yet, 
they would not be here were it not for the wretchedness 
which is in the world. My dear Aunt Rebecca, you are 
one of the dumb-blind, and do not know an angel when 
it is face to face with you. It should be a matter of 
constant congratulation to you, that you have a niece 
who knows angels when she meets them. They are very 
scarce, my dear, and found only where the great multi- 
tude never go. ‘Ye have them always with you.’ 
They are of the lowly and sorrowful of this world and 
are possessed of those qualities which fit them for the 
eternal home to which death enters them.” 

She left my side and went to the water’s edge, 
where she tried how near she could put her foot to the 
incoming wave without getting it wet. Thus, for a few 
moments, when she took her way to the cottage. I 
watched until she entered the path leading thereto, and 
then went to the hotel. 

I do not believe that there is another woman in the 
world so peculiarly situated as I am. When I think of 


56 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Grace 1 am impressed with the importance of my life, 
and at the same time its utter insignificance. I have no 
individuality. My life is tangled up in hers. Born 
under the same roof, I have been an orphan since before 
she was born. Twelve years ago, her mother, my sister, 
died. We had been companions until this event. Then 
she became my charge. The slight difference in our 
ages, (I am twenty-four and she twenty- two) has 
seriously militated against me. Viewed in the light of 
Grace’s existence, I should have been born ten years 
earlier. I can see no good reason for my horning having 
been put off so late. Why did I not get brother Phil’s 
or Charley's place is a mystery to me, when I think of 
the duties imposed on my life. It would have suited 
them just as well to have been born six or nine years 
later. Sister Marie was a goose, else she would not have 
married at so early an age. She committed matrimony 
just as she turned her fifteenth year, and, that too, with the 
consent of the authors of her being, who, in most things, 
were set down as prudent, sensible, and very proper 
people. Good sense would have suggested that Marie 
gain womanhood before turning attention to matrimony. 
Her sixteenth birthday was made doubly memorable by 
the advent of the young lady who affects the pleasure of 
calling me her dear old aunt. I was not comprehensive 
enough to enjoy the event and was too busy with some 
teeth which were forcing themselves through my gums 
to enter into the joy of the occasion. I have an opinion 
that instead of rejoicing, I would have entered a protest 
against the intruder’s first lung expansion. I learned 
early the superior relation I held to her, and endeavored 
to impress her mind with my importance. The endeavor 
has been the flattest of failures. As from the beginning, 


SQUEEZING OUT SEA WATER. 


5 / 


SO now, she rules, not I. But why should I be fault- 
finding ? Poor, dear Marie, sweetest of sisters, dearest 
of mothers, fondest and truest of wives. O, inexorable 
death ! And Grace, dear Grace, why should a thought 
linger with me against you ? What would I have been 
without you ? When I think of all, I am forced to the 
conclusion that my life would have been a waste, were it 
not for you. All the sweet contentment, all the 
unalloyed happiness was with you or for you. I love 
your little pouts and pets, and even your slight exhibi- 
tions of temper, or your unintentional sarcasm. She 
never, to my knowledge, has wittingly done a wrong, yet 
she is constantly doing something which my judgment 
condemns. Most frequently my condemnation is in 
error. The results prove that what I call her impulse is 
really intuition. She is never so handsome as when 
crossed in some of her intents. Her face was not made 
a playground for dimples, and her eyes are most beauti- 
ful when the arch is out of her brows. Her heart has 
wonderful capabilities. She abounds in sympathy and is 
constantly seeking some object that will awaken it. 
There is scarcely an hour in her life that is not 
pulsating with desire to relieve suffering. I have been 
of opinion that she would never marry. Some poor 
fellows have made persistent attempts to awaken a 
feeling warmer than that of friendship. All have failed. 
At last she has met her fate. George McMillan has 
dispelled all discussion. She loves him. Under her 
apparent indifference, there is a passion, fierce as a 
tempest. She has not spoken of her love for some days, 
and has forbidden me to mention it. She comes and 
goes as if it were forgotten. This wonderful mastery of 
self is the stoutest exhibition of the power wherewith 


58 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


she controls all who come within her influence. She 
seems to act from intuition. What upon earth, could 
have suggested to her this out-of-the-way, almost 
desolate place ? Yet, where could we have gone where 
so many incidents of most interesting character would 
have occurred ? She never speaks of home, and seems 
to have determined to make this sandy beach her world 
for the season. We have not received any scratches of 
the pen since our arrival. Everybody is impatient for 
the mails except the young ladies who occupy numbers 
seven and nine, ocean front. She told me she instructed 
her father not to write unless some member of the 
family was dangerously ill, and she would not write 
home unless I was drowned. Nice conditions on which 
to rest a correspondence. 


V 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Blast such an infirmity 

It seems to me that Grace and I are the only 
persons here for pleasure. The rest are invalids — their 
escorts are nurses. Mr. Potts, the proprietor of the 
hotel, is a man of consequence. He has the most 
patronizing ways of anyone I ever met. Ignorant and 
pretentious, he moves about with owlish gravity, and 
expresses his views on all subjects with the emphatic 
earnestness and mysteriousness of an oracle. After 
dinner yesterday he honored me by seating himself in a 
chair at my side on the veranda. His personnel is 
grotesque. Grace says he looks like a demijohn. The 
best way to describe him is to say that he impresses you 
with the conviction that he is overfed. He has a very 
thick, short neck, with a big roll of fat lying at the base 
of his brain. His nose is thin, in contradiction to the 
rest of his make-up. The end of it sharp and the point 
dropped, so that, a short distance away, it looks as if a 
wart were attached to it. His lips are thick and ashy 
in color. Jaw long and heavy, reminding one of the 
weapon which Sampson used so effectively on the Phil- 
istines. Shaded by a pair of shaggy brows, are two 
ferret-like eyes. The lid of the left one must have some 
nervous affection, as every few seconds it partly closes, 
the movement so slow that a bad half-wink is made. 

59 


60 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


When I turned in response to his address, that left eye 
saluted me. I rose from my chair, indignant at the 
familiarity, when he quickly rose and said : 

^‘It’s an infirmity, Miss, a very serious affliction. 
That movement is neither a suggestion nor an insinua- 
tion. Yes, it has gotten me into lots of trouble, has 
that eye. Yes. There is scarcely a day that my wife 
does not receive a protest against my behavior. Yes. 
People don’t wait for explanations. Yes. They just 
hurry away and keep boiling until they meet her. Yes. 
She explains, and harmony follows. Yes. That eye 
keeps me poor. I’ve spent thousands on scientific 
fellows, but all to no purpose. Yes. If anything, it 
gets a little worse after each operation. Yes. They 
made the movement a little slower, which is not desir- 
able. Yes. I have ceased the scientific, and make my 
explanation, as I do now. ’ ’ 

“ I suppose it is annoying to you,’' I said, resuming 
my seat. 

“Very. Not only to myself, but to her. Yes. 
Sarah assures me that she has the utmost confidence in 
me, but suggests that I keep out of the society of the 
ladies. Yes. Says it will save me explanations.’' 

“ Your wife is considerate. That is good advice,” 
I remarked. 

“Yes, very. Think it is backed by a little 
jealousy. Yes. There is no love without jealousy. 
Yes. Sarah loves me to distraction. Yes. That eye 
gives her a great deal of trouble. Yes. She pines 
about its performance and has proposed a remedy which 
I cannot possibly apply even to gratify the mother of 
my children. Yes. She wants me to wear a green 
blind over it. Yes. A green blind. It would disfigure 


SUCH AN INFIRMITY. 


61 


me. Yes. Can’t do it, even to please Sarah. Yes. 
You observe I keep my hand over it while I converse. 
Yes. It got the start of me this morning, else I would 
have covered it before I spoke to you. Yes.” 

While he was talking there hobbled past on crutches 
a little dried-up old man who in his personnel is just the 
opposite of Mr. Potts. He is merely a shadow. His 
head, with its big, black, brilliant eyes, seems more than 
half of him. He is merely framework, which would 
bear lots of flesh, and nerves, and muscles, and blood. 
As he passed, he scowled at Potts, and I observ^ed that 
his lips were moving, but I heard no words. 

‘ ‘ Who is that ? ” I asked abruptly. 

Hard to handle. Yes, very hard to handle. Says 
he hates me, yes, but I know he loves me. Yes. Curses 
me and blesses me in the same breath. Yes. He must 
have a block to chop on. Yes. I’m his block. He was 
cursing me as he passed. Yes. Not loud, but deep. In 
a few minutes when I meet him, he will bless or curse 
me as his humor is. Yes. That wet spell some weeks 
ago was bad on him. Yes. Rheumatism from the 
crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Yes. Held 
me responsible for it. Yes. Pays his bills promptly. 
Yes. Never disputes, but pays. Yes. He’s very 
prompt. When he paid his last bill he assaulted me by 
charging that I neglected him. Yes. Asked how. He 
replied that I never wanted to borrow from him. Yes. 
Was offended because I would not ask him for a loan. 
Yes. Says that the sharks are on me all the time, and 
that they will eat me up financially, and he’ll be glad of 
it. Yes. Says I am a poor fool. That’s Mr. Cowls, of 
Philadelphia. ’ ’ 


62 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘ He is a great sufferer,” I remarked, to lead Mr. 
Potts to further talk. 

Yes. In stormy wet weather. Yes. Bright days 
he is cheerful — very cheerful. Yes. Likes company, 
and is pleasant with everybody but me. Yes. But 
that’s no annoyance. Yes. I understand him. Know 
him as if I had made him from the ground up. Yes. 
When he aches, he thinks I am in every joint. Yes. 
Tells me I am. Yes. Uses strong language then, but 
it is lost on me, because I coincide with his opinion. 
Yes. Says he will leave the hotel as soon as he is able. 
Yes. But he doesn’t go. He stays.” 

‘ ' Who are the Primroses ? ” I inquired. 

” They’re strange. Yes. First season here. They’re 
well supplied. Yes. Well supplied. Talk too much 
about their grandpas and grandmas. Yes. Think they’re 
new to society. Were you at the hop the other night? ” 

** No, I was not.” 

Then you didn’t see the old lady when she glit- 
tered. Yes. Glittered — covered with diamonds. Yes. 
Blazed on her shoe buckles and on the pinnacle of her 
comb. Yes. Blazed all over. Yes. Looked as if she 
were a cousin to the stars. Yes. And that son was 
aglow with them. Yes. Worn awkwardly, that is true, 
and kept him busy getting the right light on them. Yes. 
That fellow is a catch, and there is a number of them 
after him. Yes. They’ll land him.” 

‘‘What use will they make of him after he is 
caught?” I asked. 

‘‘That’s for them to devise. I should have said 
‘her.’ Yes. Two can’t have him. Yes. Of course 
not. Yes. A smart woman will manage him. Yes. 
She will make a wrapping string of him, and she will 


SUCH AN INFIRMITY. 


63 


wear him constantly on her finger. Yes. He’s a catch. 
I say, he’s a catch. Yes.” 

He discussed a number of others, but they were 
uninteresting, and so I grew tired and bade him good 
evening. The only people who have really attracted my 
attention, he did not speak of, nor did I ask. I have 
been waiting for Grace to discover who they are, but 
she is so absorbed with the McMillans, and Racketts, 
and the cottage people, that she has neglected to give 
them any attention. They are a distinguished looking 
couple, just middle age, unobtrusive, with elegant man- 
ners, and avoid society. The woman’s face is very 
interesting. The expression is spiritual, intelligent, yet 
sad. Traces of suffering mark every line of it. He is 
dignified but not stiff, with a tinge of haughtiness in his 
manner. Courtly in movement, he has the gallantry of 
youth, and waits upon his wife more like a wooer than a 
husband. They seem made for each other. He is 
almost constantly at her side, whether walking or 
sitting. In the open air or in the hotel, she leans upon 
him. If he leaves her for a moment, which is but 
seldom, on his return he approaches with courtly and 
dignified consideration, amounting to veneration. I 
think Grace likes them, though she protests otherwise. 
A few days ago I asked her why she had not made their 
acquaintance. She replied, ‘ ‘ I have an aversion to 
them. Besides, they do not rush against me. They are 
cold, proud people who are not conscious that there is 
any suffering in this world save their own. They suffer. 
Sleeping or waking, those two people suffer. ’ ’ 

I think I can assign a better reason for her aversion 
than she gives. Grace has discovered that Mary Hast- 
ings loves the old lady, and each day spends hours in 


64 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


her company. The sweet, little gray-eyed beauty is 
sharing her love. Grace would like to absorb all of it, 
except that which Mary gives her mother. The old 
doctor (I heard the clerk call him Doctor Kirkwood,) 
and his wife are never so happy, apparently, as when 
they have that child with them. At times he holds her 
on his knee, while again she is sitting on a rustic bench 
between them. Only yesterday they were thus situated, 
and the little one was asleep with her head resting on 
the breast of the lady. I observed Grace watching the 
three from her window. I am satisfied that she is not 
pleased with this diversion of the child’s love. 


CHAPTER IX 

The soul he held on earthT 

Grace had a fit of talking on her this morning. 
She just rattled away, touching this topic and that with 
delicate embellishments of wit and humor, but really in 
a meaningless sort of way, so that she reminded me of 
the jolly fellow we met at the railway station, and who 
she said was not a human, but ‘‘a machine.'' She 
jumped from subject to subject with the ease of a school 
girl singing a familiar medley. All the while her mind 
seemed to be elsewhere than with her themes. It was a 
relief when Racketts with the gray-eyed sweetness, and 
the inseparable Major, presented themselves at the door 
of my room. As the children entered, Racketts turned 
to the dog and made a motion indicating that the 
presence of the Major was not agreeable and that he 
must wait in the hall. 

'' No," said Grace. Bring him in." 

" He is too wet," said Racketts. " There's a cat 
with which he has lots of fun, and he got after her and 
ran right under the water of the sprinkling cart, and he 
got soaked." 

" Well, let him come," said Grace. 

Racketts turned to the dog which had seated 
himself in the hall at his young master's bidding, and 
said : 

5 


65 


66 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


** Shake yourself, good.’’ 

In an instant the little animal obeyed, giving him- 
self a complete shaking, though there was but little 
water in his hair. 

Now come,^’ said his master. 

The dog was entering the room on all fours when 
Racketts extended his finger and in the kindliest voice 
said, Don’t forget your manners.” 

In an instant the Major was perpendicular. When 
he was near Grace he turned his eyes to Racketts, who 
nodded his head and said ”Yes.” The Major made a 
bow, then dropped to the use of his four legs. 

We had a hearty laugh at the performance, when 
Grace said : ‘ ‘ Racketts, why do you not call him ‘ rags. ’ 
He looks like a bunch of them.” 

” I never thought he looked like rags, but he does 
when he’s wet,” said Racketts, and then added, ” But, 
when he’s dry, he’s very silky.” 

” Come here. Sunbeam,” said Grace, motioning 
with her index finger to little Mary. ' ‘ I am going to 
give you a new name this morning: You are always so 
sweet and bright and good, that I am going to call you 
Sunbeam.” You will not forget your new name ? ” 

” No, Miss Grace, I’ll remember it.” 

‘ ‘ What did I say it was ? ’ ’ 

‘‘ Sunbeam,” replied the child. 

” Is we all to call her that ? ” asked Racketts. 

” Yes, we is all to call her Sunbeam^” replied Grace 
with a laugh. ” Racketts, you must not forget.” 

I won’t. Miss. That’s what she is. Nobody 
ever thought of that afore you. It just suits.” 

What is your name ? ” asked Grace, appealing to 
the child. 


SOUL HELD ON EARTH. 


67 


'' Sunbeam/’ answered the little one. 

'‘Come here and kiss me. You shall have a big 
wax doll that shuts its eyes when it goes to sleep, I 
will send to the city for it immediately.” 

“Oh, that will be hunkie,” chimed in Racketts. 
“ She has a rag baby now, haven’t you ? ” 

“Yes, but it has been very sick,” replied Sunbeam, 
‘ ‘ and I guess it will die. ’ ’ 

“Of course it will die,” said Grace, as she 
picked up Sunbeam and carried her into her own room, 
closing the door, which she has done almost daily. 

When alone with Racketts, I asked, “Who is the 
old man you call ‘ Uncle Tom ? ’ ” 

“Why, don’t you know him? Why, that’s Uncle 
Tom. I thought every bod}^ knowed him.” 

“Uncle Tom who or what? What is his last 
name? ” I asked with some impatience. 

“ Uncle Tom McElroy. He was here last year 
when I was here. I knowed him then. He is very 
good to us all — the poor. ‘ Sit down. Major,’ he said to 
his dog, that kept licking his hand. ‘ He wants to show 
off. Miss Rebecca, that’s his way of telling he wants to 
perform.” 

“ Can he do many things ? ” I asked. 

“Yes, Miss, he’s a regular show.” 

“Well, make him perform. I want to see his 
tricks.” 

“ He does it better when she sees him,” pointing to 
Grace’s room. 

“ Has he performed for Miss Grace? ” I asked. 

” No, I doesn’t me^n her. I means Sunbeam. It 
makes the Major so glad to see her clap her hands and 
laugh.” 


68 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE, 


Grace, come and bring Sunbeam,” I called. ‘‘The 
Major is going to perform.” 

“ Let us go quick,” I heard the child say, and in a 
moment they returned. Racketts stepped to the center 
of the room, and the Major, as if conscious of all that 
had been said, took position in front of his master. 

‘ ‘ How does a poor little dog do when a big dog 
bites him on the hind leg? ” asked Racketts. 

The Major hopped around on three legs and cried 
“ Ki, I, Ki, I.” 

“ How do little babies crawl before they walk ? ” 

The Major bent his knees and crawled on the floor. 

Racketts picked up a newspaper. The moment he 
touched it the Major threw himself on his haunches and 
extended his paws, apparently reaching for the paper. 
Racketts placed it between his paws and then said : 

‘ ‘ Read us the news of the awful killing of a man 
and his wife, and their seven little orphan children.” 

The dog looked intently at the paper, changing its 
position several times. ‘ ‘ He’s looking for that par- 
ticular piece. Pieces are sometimes hard to find when 
you don’t remember exactly where you saw them.” 

At last the Major found it. He commenced little 
short growls, all the while keeping his eyes on the news- 
paper. 

“ Oh, that’s the performance takes my mother. 
When mother is sitting at home, all alone and sad-like, 
he, without, being told, picks up a piece of paper and 
goes right in front of her, and reads about that awful 
murder. Then mother laughs, and he jumps and barks 
just as if he knowed he made her happy.” 

The performance was continued for some time to our 
great amusement. He made a soldier of him with a 


SOUL HELD ON EARTH. 


69 


stick for a gun, wounded him in battle and made him die 
on the field, all the while explaining the scene. Played 
the beggar, holding the boy’s hat between his paws and 
taking out the pennies with his mouth, as fast as Rack- 
etts dropped them in, so as to keep the hat empty, in 
true beggar style ; went out and rapped at the door, and 
when opened, entered in an erect attitude, and bowed to 
each one in the room, looking as serious as if he had been 
scolded. 

' ‘ What is the matter ? ’ ’ asked Grace. 

‘^Nothing. He is now going to do his last act. 
Major, show us how you always pray with mother and 
me.” 

The dog dropped on his knees, and Sunbeam slipped 
from the lap of Grace and went to the side of Racketts, 
when both kneeled. The little dog slowly bent his knees, 
threw up his head and closed his eyes, as were those of 
the children. He then uttered a low whine, so full of 
pity that it crept into my heart like a wail. He repeated 
it several times until Racketts said “Amen,” when the 
three arose from their knees. It was wonderfully real. 
Grace had turned her head and I felt my eyes growing 
watery. 

“We always say our prayers at night before going 
to bed, all of us,” said Sunbeam. 

“ He learned that hisself,” said Racketts. “Just 
took to it, cause he knowed we all had to starve to death. ’ ’ 

“Starve to death,” repeated Grace. “Come to 
me, ’ ’ she continued as she seated herself on the lounge. 

When the crippled boy reached her side, she drew 
him down to her and said : 

‘ ' Tell me about your starving. ’ ’ 


70 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


We was living in a shanty by the wharf, and we 
had nothing to eat all day, for two days, and it was night 
and it was stormin', and Mowin’, and rainin’, and thun- 
derin’ and lightenin’, and it was cold, for it was in April 
and the fire had gone out the day afore, ’cause we had 
no wood or coal, an’ I was sick an’ couldn’t go out an’ 
gather chips an’ bark, an’ we was goin’ to bed, an’ 
mother an’ me got down on our knees by a chair and 
commenced to pray, and I said, Oh, God, listen to the 
Major. Oh, God, hear the poor, little dog,” and mother’s 
head fell down on the chair, an’ she cried so easy an’ 
said she was happy, an’ she picked the Major up an’ 
held him agin her breast, an’ said ” God did hear him; 
an’ will answer him;” an’ then we got up, an’ there stood 
a man, an’ he was cryin’. The storm was so noisy we 
didn’t hear him open the door, but we wasn’t afraid of 
him, ’cause the Major didn’t bark, an’ he was all wet an’ 
muddy, an’ he was drunk. Mother told him to sit down, 
an’ he did; an’ all he could say was ' God pity me,’ and 
mother told him God did, and that God loved him, an’ 
then mother an’ the Major an’ me kneeled down agin, 
an’ prayed for the man, and all the time he cried, ^ God 
pity me.’ Then we made him a bed on the floor, an’ he 
staid there all night an’ in the mornin’ he gave mother 
money, and kissed her hand an’ said she had saved him. 
Next day he came back, an’ told mother he wanted us to 
move, an’ he took us away up town, an’ put us in a nice 
little house, an’ we have no rent to pay, an’ he comes to 
see us often, an’ brings a sweet lady with two little 
girls with him, an’ they always kiss mother an’ say, 
‘God, bless you,’ an’ mother says God does, an’ that’s 
the way we was starvin’, an’ how the Major learned to 
pray. ’ ’ 


SOUL HELD ON EARTH. 


71 


Yes, and God heard him,'' said Grace, addressing 
me, in a sobbing voice, as though I was about to dispute 
the fact. 

‘‘ Why should He not," I answered. 

** Of course He does," said Racketts. 

*‘Yes, indeed. He does," said Sunbeam. ‘‘God 
tells me that He does, doesn't He, Racketts ? " 

“ Yes, He tells all of us— you and mother and me," 
replied the boy. 

“ Yes, He tells me too," added Grace. 

Grace seemed determined that I should dispute the 
proposition, but I dropped all equivocal language and 
said, ‘‘Yes, I believe that the Major's prayer was an- 
swered. ' ' 

That seemed to satisfy Grace, so she turned to the 
Major and gave him a sweet talk. The dog seemed to 
understand every word that was said, and Racketts said 
that he ‘‘knowed every word." " I’m so sorry he can’t 
talk. What a great dog he would be if he could, 
wouldn't he," said Racketts. 

‘‘ Yes," said Grace, "but he is a great dog as he is. 
Racketts, I do not wonder that you fled from the city to 
keep him out of the clutches of the cruel law, and the 
still more cruel men who execute it. " 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I had to bring him away. He never 
followed me in the city, but the ‘catchers’ would go to 
the house and steal him. They did do it," said Rack- 
etts with anger in his tone. 

As usual, Grace picked up the fair, gray eyes and 
went into her room where she remained a few minutes. 
Returning, she kissed the children and patted the 
Major's head, as she sent them home. 


CHAPTER X. 


** They are purified who suffer, 

I made a regular canvass of the hotel this morning. 
Walked in all the halls, porches and verandas. Inadver- 
tently peeped into open doors and took sly glances at 
strange faces. I do not believe that women have more 
curiosity than men, yet they receive credit for possessing a 
superabundance of it. I am forced to confess that I have 
my share, particularly when I am doing a season. Though 
I am not real rude or offensively inquisitive, I find much 
difficulty in passing an open door without looking in. 
Grace says she can, and I verily believe that if there is a 
woman who does, it is she. When I leave my door open 
neither man nor woman passes without coming to an 
almost imperceptible pause. Mrs. Primrose in passing 
mine yesterday, cleared her throat as if to attract my 
attention. I did not turn around, though it is more than 
probable that I should have done so, had it not been that 
I had a full view of her in my mirror. I met her this 
morning on the veranda. She held out her hand and 
thanked me for my kindness the night of the storm. She 
was also kind enough to inform me that I had attracted 
her attention immediately on my arrival, and that she 
had been waiting suitable opportunity to make my 
acquaintance. She also expressed her regret that her son 
was not present, as he was very anxious to tell how com- 

72 


PURIFIED BY SUFFERING. 


73 


forting I had been to him when I assured him that the 
water was receding. She was very anxious that I should 
meet him, but could not be specific as to when he would 
be abroad, as he was suffering from shattered nerves, the 
result of his fearful fright. He was unable to get more 
than six hours sleep, and he needed ten each night. 
Consequently he was confined to his room, and the 
physician said he must remain there for some days to 
come. I got the dose of ‘ ‘ My Son’ ’ of which Grace 
spoke. Poor, old mother! She dotes on that nonenity 
and injects him into every variety of conversation. I 
was surfeited, yet was compelled to listen until I ob- 
served Grace making preparations to leave the hotel, 
when I excused myself and hurried from her presence. 

'' I’m so glad you put in an appearance. The old 
lady was dosing me with ‘ My Son,’ ” I said. 

''You should feel honored. They are after you. 
You will have to accept your destiny. Cease fighting 
against it, my dear aunt. She will make you a most 
excellent mother-in-law,” she replied. 

" Grace, I beg you refrain from your silliness.” 

" You should give her your ears frequently. Sound 
her to the very depths. Team his peculiarities, his likes 
and dislikes, and those particular things which feed his 
vanity or his stomach. The path will then be made 
smooth,” she replied with a half side-look. 

' ' Grace, I beg you cease. I do not want to reply 
in kind, though I could. ’ ’ 

"You have a rival in Flora McMillan. She is 
determined to impress him with her charms. East night 
when Mrs. Primrose discovered Flora was in the parlor, 
she went hurriedly to her rooms and brought ' My Son ’ 


74 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘ * She told me he was confined to his room since the 
storm, suffering from shattered nerves,’’ I remarked. 

‘ ‘ Presumably, he is, but when he can be brought 
into the presence of Flora, his nerves grow steady. You 
should have been there. He waited upon her like a 
page. You must be alert or you will lose the prize.” 

You do not seem to recognize how slight the dif- 
ference is between raillery and insincerity. Miss 
McMillan is welcome to what Mr. Potts calls ‘ the catch. ’ ’ ’ 

At this moment George McMillan came, and I left 
them. 

I am constantly interrupting myself. I was doing 
the halls and verandas, and I continued. I met Mr. 
Cowls on his crutches. He was leaning against a pillar 
and looking seaward. As I neared him he gave me a 
most gracious salutation, and his face wore such a 
benignant expression that I stopped and held out my 
hand. He almost dropped his crutches as he reached 
for it. 

“ Your obedient servant. Miss. I hope your health 
is such as to enable you to enjoy fully this lovely morn- 
ing,” he said. 

“Thank you. My health is excellent, and the 
morning indeed lovely. ’ ’ 

Mr. Cowls was very pleasant and very interesting. 
Was not then suffering from his rheumatism, yet was 
compelled to use his crutches, lest he, in an unguarded 
moment, might fall. I was not only entertained but 
surprised at the fluency of his speech and the elegance 
of his expression. As I left him, he thanked me for 
my courtesy, and assured me that I had greatly added to 
the pleasures of the morning. 

I finished my grand round, and was passing through 


PURIFIED BY SUFFERING. 


75 


the hotel office when my attention was attracted by loud 
talk. Mr. Potts was behind the counter and Mr. Cowls 
leaning against it, shaking one of his crutches at Mr. 
Potts, while the latter was repeating the word “yes,"’ 
yes.'' 

‘‘Say No," said Mr. Cowls. 

“ Yes," replied Potts. 

Then followed an adjective or two descriptive of 
Potts’ general and particular chraacteristics. The only 
reply made by Potts was a more rapid movement of the 
lid of his left eye. Mr. Cowls turned, and seeing me, 
he threw the crutch he was brandishing, under his arm, 
and addressed me: 

‘ ‘ He is the most absolutely contrary man I ever 
met. He will say ‘ yes ’ when he means ‘ no, ’ and ‘ no’ 
when he means ‘yes. ’ Everybody abhors him — his wife 
abhors him. ’ ' 

"Yes," said Potts. 

"What did I tell you? He means ‘no,’ for she 
dotes on him. He would be a miscreant if he could 
truthfully say ‘ yes. ’ A man abhorred by his wife — a 
true woman as is Mrs. Potts — would be a miscreant. ’ ’ 

" No," said Potts. 

" What did I tell you? I can’t stand him. I must 
get out of his sight. ’ ’ 

"Stay with me," said Potts, as Mr. Cowls hobbled 
away as fast as his crutches could carry him. 

"Very hard to handle. Yes. As I before remarked 
to you. Yes. But I know how to humor him. Yes. 
He must have a block to chop on, and I’m the block. 
Yes. I am at his service. Does him good. Does me 
no hurt. Yes. I know his humors, yes, and gratify 
them. Yes. Human nature is a great study. Miss. 


76 


SIX WKEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Have made it one all my life. Yes. Read men as you 
do books. Yes. Know what Cowls is thinking about 
when I look into his face. Yes. He is happy now that 
he has had his spat. Yes. He has been worried for 
two hours. Yes. I have been avoiding him, and his 
gall hurts him. Yes. It’s not all out of him yet. Yes. 
You see you interrupted the play. Yes. Won’t sleep 
well until he has entirely delivered himself. Yes. Very 
hard to handle, but I understand him. Yes.” 

I bowed to Potts without assenting to his criticism 
of Mr. Cowls. Grace was waiting for me and suggested 
a walk on the beach. Just as we were leaving the hotel, 
I called her attention to Dr. Kirkwood and his wife, 
seated at the end of the veranda, with Sunbeam between 
them. She paused a few moments and looked at them. 
I broke the silence by remarking — 

‘ ' I would like to know those people. ’ ’ 

” I would not,” she replied. 

“Grace, I think you are feigning that dislike. 
They are desirable people, otherwise Sunbeam and 
Racketts vrould not be in love with them. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How do you know that the children love them ? ’ ’ 
she asked. 

“The child told me. Says she loves them both, 
and Racketts seconds her. I partly know them, though 
I have not spoken to either. In a talk I had with Mr. 
Cowls this morning, he spoke of them in most com- 
mendatory language. I can give you some news. Mr. 
Cowls told me Mrs. Kirkwood is only happy when 
Sunbeam is with her — that, unaccountably to herself, 
she loves the child dearly and wants her with her 
constantly, but at times is willing to sacrifice her 


PURIFIED BY SUFFERING. 


77 


pleasure that Sunbeam may be with us. You have 
imposed upon me the task of casting the play (as you 
call this outing) and I want to know what part those 
people will best suit. ’ ' 

'' Make them the audience/’ she replied. “They 
seem like people who think that the world is their 
oyster. Were they to select their part, rest assured they 
would choose to be in the principal and most elegant 
box. Put them there. But come, we are losing time. 
The beach is the place this morning. ’ ’ 

She ceased talking and I did not break the silence. 
Occasionally she stopped and, stooping, she examined 
the tiny shells which covered the sand. Then she would 
pause and look out on the wrinkled face of the ocean as 
though lost in dreaminess. When we reached the rocky 
point she said: 

“ We are far enough.” 

At this point the waves had a fuller sweep than 
where they wasted themselves on the sands, and they 
beat the rocks with almost malignant violence. She 
stretched out her hands as if to invite them to greater 
force, and repeated, 

“ Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead, 

Will never come back to me. ’ * 


CHAPTER XL 


The doll dressmaker.*^ 

I have just returned from a visit to Miss McMillan. 
Sitting in the hall in front of her door, I found the Major. 
There was a wag of his tail and a look of recognition, 
and in response I said, ‘'Well, Major, you here? 
Where's the rest ? Entering I found Miss McMillan 
and Sunbeam, the former busy fitting a dress on a wax 
doll, and the latter looking on with delighted eyes. 

“Grace's purchase," said Miss McMillan. “She 
sent to New York for it. It is just lovely," holding it at 
arm's length. 

“ Beautiful! " exclaimed Sunbeam before I had time 
to answer. 

“ It is, indeed," I replied. “All dolls are lovely. I 
have much the same feeling for them that I had in girl- 
hood. I never see one that I do not feel like taking it in 
my arms and lullabying it to sleep. ' ' 

‘ ‘ I too, ' ' said Miss McMillan. ‘ ‘ I have hushed 
this one to sleep a dozen times within forty-eight hours. 
When I cannot get any part of its dress to fit, I talk to 
it, scold, and move its limbs just as I did in childhood. 
Sunbeam has been pleading with me not to scold it, but, 
indeed, it needs worse than a scolding — it should be 
spanked. Nothing has saved it but the pleadings of 
Sunbeam, yet I fear I shall have to punish this doll 

78 


THE DOLL DRESSMAKER. 


79 


before I have completed her trousseau. Sunbeam knows 
what fearful trouble I have had. Don’t you, dear? ” 

‘ ‘ Yes, it has given you a great deal of trouble, but 
I think it would do better if you did not scold it. You 
hurt its feelings and then it wants to do as it pleases. 
Don’t it. Miss Rebecca? ” She looked pleadingly at me 
for support. 

'‘Yes, Miss Flora, Sunbeam is right,” I said. 
"Dolls always get naughty if you hurt their feelings.” 

"Yes, indeed, they do,” chimed in the little one. 
" Why, even my rag baby pouts when I scold her.” 

"Well, I will not scold any more. Its trousseau 
will soon be complete. I have been busy for three days 
making chemises, pantalets, dresses, bonnets, etc. , etc. , 
and that too, under a pledge of secrecy, that Sunbeam 
might be surprised, but Grace will be disappointed. The 
little one has been here for hours at a time, and is famil- 
iar with every garment and adornment I have made. I 
don’t believe in surprises. The child has had three days 
of enjoyment which she would not have had. Sunbeam, 
show Miss Duncan that beautiful pair of pantalets,” said 
Flora with a smile to me. 

In a moment Sunbeam had opened a drawer and out 
came a doll’s fashionable wardrobe. As she delicately 
handled each article, she called my attention to its beauty, 
until she came to the pantalets. These she laid across 
her little arm, and looking up into my face, said: 

"Aren’t they lovely — perfectly lovely?” 

"They are, very.” They were trimmed with a 
costly lace, and I am sure Miss Flora furnished it, as we 
have none of that style in our family, and it could not be 
purchased short of New York, if there. 


80 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


** Sunbeam says that dolls are always good/* 
remarked Miss Flora. 

'' Is that so, Sunbeam? Are they always good? *’ I 
asked. 

“Yes, Miss Rebecca, unless their mother is bad. I 
had such a lovely doll when I lived in the big city, but 
it hadn’t such nice clothes as these. It had only one 
dress and that it got at the 'Fair’ where it was born. 
It couldn’t cry like this one, and I’m sure it was always 
good, only when I was bad. Then it was bad too and I 
had to punish it. It wanted to go to bed nearly every 
night wearing its dress and it gave me a good deal of 
trouble. I called it Mary Kolba. But it was smart, and 
it would argue back at me, until I silenced it by a good 
scolding. Sometimes I had to cry with grief.” 

We could not help laughing at the earnestness of 
Sunbeam, and as she closed. Flora laid down the doll 
and picked up Sunbeam. As she gathered her in her 
arms. Flora said: 

“ Tell me whom you love best.” 

‘ ' Mamma. ’ ’ 

“Who next?” 

“Mrs. Kirkwood.” 

' ' Who ? ’ ’ exclaimed Flora. 

“ Mrs. Kirkwood,” I answered for the child. “The 
old doctor’s wife.” 

' ' Do you love her next to your mother ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” replied the child. 

“ Well, who next? ” 

' ' Miss Grace. ’ ’ 

' ‘And then who ? ’ ’ 

“You, and you next, Miss Rebecca.” 


THE DOLL DRESSMAKER. 


81 


‘ ‘ Why do you love Mrs. Kirkwood next to your 
mother ? ' * asked Flora. 

Because I do/' replied the child. 

“ How about your father? ” 

Oh, I love him bestest of all. I love him more 
than I can reach. Papa is so sick," and her little eyes 
filled with tears. 

‘ ^ Everybody loves Grace, ’ ' said Flora. ^ ‘ I can 
scarcely tell whether she is first or second in my own 
heart. I so mix her up with what is first that she 
becomes a part of it. " 

"Where is Racketts?" I inquired, anxious to 
change the conversation, as it was tending to a subject 
on which I had to be dumb. " I saw the Major at the 
door as I entered." 

" The Major at the door ? Why did you not bring 
him in? He has missed Racketts," said Miss McMillan. 

" No, Miss Flora, he always waits for me. Rack- 
etts tells him to stay, and he always stays," said Sun- 
beam. 

" Open the door and let him in. He’s one of us," 
said Flora. 

As the child did so, the Major reared up and com- 
menced pawing the air. When told to come in, instead 
of dropping on all fours, he kept his upright position, 
hopping into the room and dancing around the child as 
she brought him to where we were seated. 

"Eet him see the doll. Miss Flora," said Sunbeam. 

"There, Mister Major, what do you think of that 
young lady ? ’ ’ said Flora, holding the doll in front of the 
dog. The Major shot our his tongue so quickly that 
Flora jumped to prevent him from licking its face. 


82 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


He won't hurt it. He only wants to kiss it. He 
often kisses me before I know it. He steals them," said 
Sunbeam. 

If that little dog does not reason, I would like to 
know what power he uses. It is far beyond instinct. 
His intelligence is of a much higher order. To my 
mind, it is reason. If he can reason, has he a soul ? Is 
the soul and power of thought the same ? Do you think. 
Flora, that Major ever has the heartache? " I asked. 

‘ ' Of course he has. But you are treading on dan- 
gerous ground. Let us return to orthodoxy. Dogs 
have no souls. There is an end of it," she said with 
a laugh. 

I spent an hour with Miss McMillan. The real 
object of my visit was to meet her brother. I wanted to 
look into his face to see if it was telltale. Just as I was 
going, I said : 

" Your improvement is wonderful. Were you ever 
in such perfect flesh ? It seems to me that you have 
been newly made. Is your brother fishing this morn- 
ing?" 

" I do not know. Where is Grace ? " 

‘ ' I think she is at the cottage. She told me that 
she had much to attend to this morning, and would not 
be home until near the noon hour. ' ' 

"Perhaps my brother is there. Have you ever 
visited the Hastings' ? " 

" No, Grace has promised to take me with her, but 
I guess it is not opportune," I replied. 


CHAPTER XII. 


‘‘ An indefinite letter. 

The improvement in Miss McMillan's health is 
amazing. I can scarcely realize that she is the same 
person we met when coming to the beach. Her flesh 
has the most delicate tint I have ever seen. Good- 
spirited when a sufferer, she is now bubbling over with 
animation and mischief. She is wickedly bent on hav- 
ing a flirtation with Mr. Primrose, and that young 
gentleman is eager for her assaults. Well, he has not 
enough heart to get seriously wounded, and no harm 
will follow. Mr. Primrose has ceased to eye me, for 
which I may thank Miss Flora. I met the mother and 
son this morning on the veranda. I received recog- 
nition, very slight, however, from the mother. As I 
passed he turned his head toward me, and while he 
looked the eyeglass dropped, I infer that was intended 
as a cut. He is no longer interested in me, and of 
course I am no longer an adorable creature." What 
fearful disappointments come to us. 

Here is a letter from father," said Grace, bustling 
into the room. 

'' To you? " I asked. 

No, to you. Open it quickly and let me know its 
contents," she said. 

It was brief. Not a word about Grace or Mr. 
McMillan, only a slight hint. He said, ** I fear you 

83 


84 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


have neglected your charge. I will be at the beach 
soon.’’ Handing Grace my letter, I asked : 

‘ ‘ Where is yours ? ” 

‘^Mine? ” she replied, in apparent surprise. 

Yes, yours. Your father says he wrote you.” 

She stood in silence a moment, then handed me 
hers. It was more definite. Stated that he had been 
startled by Mr. McMillan’s request. It was so sudden. 
The time was so short that he doubted whether they 
understood each other fully. He had made inquiry 
about Mr. McMillan and was entirely satisfied. 

‘ ‘ Do you know whether he has written to Mr. 
McMillan ? ” I asked. 

‘‘Yes, he has written to him. Mr. McMillan did 
not refer to the subject.” 

“Then how do you know he has received a letter ? ” 

“ A bird commenced singing in my heart an hour 
ago, which tells me so.” 

“ Where were you when the bird began to sing? ” 

“With George McMillan. Hemet me as I came 
from the cottage. His eyes were all ablaze with talk, 
while his tenderness of word and manner crept into my 
heart like incense. When we parted, I walked directly 
to the hotel office and received the letters.” 

“ Grace, listen to me. Did George McMillan tell 
you he had heard from your father? ” 

“ Why, auntie, of course he did — with his eyes. 
Have I not told you so ? He did not tell me with his 
tongue, nor was it necessary. One of these days. Aunt 
Rebecca, you will be able to understand ‘ eyes talk. ’ At 
present it is a dumb thing to you. I do not believe he 
will ever make a cold, plain, matter-of-fact declaration to 


AN INDEFINITE LETTER. 


85 


me. He will leave the exquisite pain which is born of 
uncertainty, to be dispelled at the altar.” 

‘‘ Grace, dear, I believe as you, and I too am happy, 
very, very happy.” 

She threw herself into my arms. I could feel her heart 
throbs. While I was pressing her to my breast, a rap 
came at the door. Before I could release Grace and 
remove her to her own room, in bounded Flora 
McMillan. 

In an instant they were in each others arms. I 
went into Grace^s room leaving them alone, where I 
indulged in a little cry of my own. What was said I do 
not know, as I closed the communicating door, but 
several times I heard Flora say ‘‘Sister, my dear sister.’* 
The only response to this was sobs. Suddenly I began 
to realize that I had lost something that was necessary 
to my own happiness. I threw myself on Grace’s bed, 
and ached and sighed myself to sleep. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Sympathy^ the silver link^ the silken tie.*' 

I have been to the cottage. It is not a cottage as 
we understand when we speak of a seaside home. That 
idea carries with it splendor, elegance, ease, architectural 
beauty and interior adornments which taste and means 
can express, all encased in wide-spreading lawn and 
attractive surroundings. It is not such a cottage. These 
elegant homes are for the rich, the fashionable, the pre- 
tentious, and not infrequently the miserable. It is a 
plain story-and-a-half frame, with one story backbuild- 
ing, the latter answering for the kitchen and laundry. 
It is surrounded by a thicket of cedars so dense that the 
top of the house only can be seen from the roadway. 
There is a small yard in front, and this is cut up into beds, 
which are filled with flowers, not perfect in their maturity, 
for the reason that only the noonday sun reaches 
them. Honeysuckles and a rose clamber over the 
framework of the front and sides, while an ivy has 
taken possession of the rear, almost hiding the gable 
from view, and clothing it in living green. The lower 
front window is nearly hidden by a rare honeysuckle 
which has reached up into the air until it secured abun- 
dant sunshine. A rich perfume in which different odors 
vie for supremacy weights the air. With each breath 
the wealth of the flowers is inhaled On entering, the 

eye is shocked on the barrenness, and at the same time 

86 


SYMPATHY IS KIND. 


87 


charmed with the cleanliness presented. There is an 
echo to your footfalls. No carpet on the floors, nor 
pictures on the walls, except three small photographs 
which are old and faded. One, that of a lady, haunts 
me. I am sure that I have seen the original, but when 
or where I cannot remember. The face is linked to my 
childhood, as someone who knew me well and loved 
me. But who is it ? I startled myself an hour ago by 
dragging it from the long past and connecting it with 
the immediate present. But, no, that cannot be. Yet, 
the thought pained me, and so contravenes all existing 
conditions that I must dismiss it from my mind. I will 
not mention it to Grace, but let it die where it was born. 

In the room a single chair constituted the furniture. 
On it were lying a well thumbed bible and a Methodist 
collection of hymns. Their condition indicated constant 
use. Grace led the way into the rear room, and, appar- 
ently forgetting I was with her, walked straight, and 
without the least ceremony, to the side of a bed. That 
scene will be forever indelibly impressed on my mind. 
My heart ached for hours afterward, and even as I write 
there is a pain in it that almost chokes me. On the bed 
lay a dying man. There was nothing left but the sem- 
blance — bones thinly covered with skin, but destitute of 
flesh. That was all. No, not all. There were eyes 
there— great large lustrous, sunken eyes, in which the 
soul had housed itself. As I looked, I could see nothing 
but the eyes. Death had possession of all the rest of the 
body. The eyes spoke volumes. They talked as no 
tongue could speak. They spoke of life and death — of 
long suffering and present patience — of love and grief — 
of sorrow and hope. As I gazed, the eyes seemed to 
light up the face, and one by one the wasted features 


88 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Stood strongly out — the sunken cheeks, the pale wide 
brow, the thin sharp nose, long jaw, and pointed chin. 
There was no grossness ; and resignation rested upon it 
in infinite calm. 

I was neglected. Grace drew a chair and seating 
herself at the bedside, reached for the emaciated hand 
which rested on his breast and said: 

* ^ How do you feel this morning ? ^ ’ 

'' Patient and resigned, but hurrying on. The end 
will soon be here,'' faintly replied the dying man. 

Are you lonely now, as when we first met you ? " 
she asked. 

‘ ^ Oh no. He is with me constantly. He holds my 
hand as you do now, and I abide with confidence in His 
will." 

** I am so glad," responded Grace. 

Yes, I know that He is with me. All dread, and 
fear and darkness have given way to confidence, courage, 
light and peace. Mary (that is the name of his wife") 
and I had a long talk this morning, until I became 
exhausted, but it was so comforting I forced myself to 
continue it. Poor, dear heart ! It is a greater struggle 
for her than for me. She is constantly praying that I 
may remain with her. This morning she recognized the 
inevitable, and in tears and sighs she is imploring for 
resignation. He will send it to her. Speak to her that 
she may be comforted and strengthened for the last 
scene of all. God, I am sure, will hear you. In His 
love and mercy He will give her strength. But you can 
help her as you have helped me. I am resigned, and 
patiently waiting the summons of the Master. Death 
has no terrors, while faith lifts me into the very presence 


SYMPATHY IS KIND. 


89 


of God. I^et me rest a few moments. I want to say 
more. ^ ^ 

He rested while Grace fanned him, and I looked 
with silence and awe into his face. 

‘‘She, poor heart, cannot believe that if I were 
gone, she would be greatly relieved — nay, more, 
strengthened for duties and responsibilities. lyife to her 
now is a great burden, under which she will sink if she 
is compelled to bear it long. The cross is too heavy for 
her. No, I must not think so. He is too kind and too 
loving to crush. He will give her strength and enable 
her to labor all the day, and watch and administer all the 
night. The care of the children is great. Tittle Robbie 
is so young, and though good, is troublesome, while 
little Mary, Sunbeam, as you call her, though wise 
beyond her years, is still a child. It will be better 
when I am gone, both for them and for me. The 
dread of leaving them has gone. I am full of trust 
now. They are the sparrows^ fall and He will notice 
them.^' 

He ceased, apparently exhausted. I have never 
been so affected. My heart throbbed and jumped as if 
it would escape from the pain which filled it. Poor, 
wasted, dying man. Leaving wife and chicks, which 
had grown out of and into his heart. Tying on the 
invisible line between life and death, and conscious that 
the latter would mark the line with unalterable distinct- 
ness, he finds consolation in the provisions which had 
their birth in the agony of Calvary. Yes, there has come 
to him the sweetest assurances of eternal life to himself, 
and protection to those he leaves behind him. Resting on a 
faith which knows no fear, his confidence becomes bound- 
less and limitless as God’s love. I pray God that when I 


90 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


come to the gate of death I may be resting upon the 
same rock. 

Grace motioned for me to leave the room, and I 
passed into the hall and thence into the kitchen, where 
I found the poor wife and mother busy at her labor. 
I felt awkward in going into her presence in such an un- 
ceremonious manner. I was relieved on recognizing 
Racketts at the farther end of the room, clapping some 
semi-dried laces in his hands. On seeing me he turned to 
Mrs. Hastings, saying : 

‘‘ Why, it is Miss Rebecca.*' 

Yes, madam, Miss Grace’s aunt,” I remarked, as 
she paused for a moment and looked at me through her 
tears, for she was weeping. She pointed to a seat with- 
out speaking. I refrained from talking until she recov- 
ered from her emotion. Lying asleep on the floor near 
Racketts was a two year old boy, no doubt the ‘‘ Robbie” 
of whom the dying man spake. The rear door opened 
and Sunbeam entered. Observing me she came quickly 
to my side and held up her sweet little mouth for a kiss. 

‘ ^ Where is she ? ’ ’ she asked. 

Miss Grace, you mean? ” 

” Yes.” 

” In the room with your papa,” I replied. She slid 
from my knee and went to Grace. 

In a few moments Mrs. Hastings turned to me and 
said : 

” It will not be long until I will be alone.” 

My heart was in my throat in an instant. I could 
not answer. I am such a poor excuse when I am most 
needed. What she said was so true. Grace could have 
answered and comforted her too, but I had to remain 
dumb. What desolation there is in that word ” alone.” 


SYMPATHY IS KIND. 


91 


When she uttered it, it fell into my heart like a stone. 
What must be its weight in hers, I thought. I sat in 
silence with my head bowed. I was busy with compari- 
sons — her lot and mine. In vain I tried to adjust the 
order of things. I observed her stop her work and 
closely examined the delicate garment she was washing, 
looking apparently at a name. She paused so long and 
looked so intently, that I said : 

* ‘ What attracts your attention ? ^ ^ 

‘ ‘ Only a name. ' ' ^ ^ Only a name. * ^ 

She uttered the last with quite a pause between each 
word, as though her mind were absent or completely 
absorbed. She made no further answer. It would have 
been rude in me to have inquired further, and so I sat in 
silence. My mind reverted to the dying man, and with 
him to the picture of desolation embodied in the word 
‘ ‘alone. ’ ^ Inaudibly I kept repeating ‘ ‘alone, ’ ’ ‘ ‘alone. ’ ’ 
Racketts interrupted my thoughts by coming over and 
expressing his joy that I had come to the cottage, and 
the hope that I would come every day. When he 
returned to his work, I sat there dumb, not able to say 
one word. I could only watch her tears and listen to 
her sighs. She could not be older than I, and yet she is 
wife and mother, and will soon be widow. She is tall 
and fair, gray-eyed and golden haired — is beautiful, and 
must have been superbly so before she was compelled to 
hourly walk with sorrow. I may be mistaken as to the 
color of her eyes. I say they are gray because they are 
all light. Tears do not redden them as they do mine. 
They only wash them, making them brighter and fuller. 
I really believe that Grace does know angels. That side 
glance startled me. The faded photograph on the wall 
jumped into the scene. Her side face is as familiar to 


92 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


me as though I were walking with it daily. She is not 
like Grace, nor like Sunbeam. It is someone else of 
whom she reminds me, away back in girlhood. But who ? 
After minutes of silence I said : 

Your labors are severe.’’ 

Yes, in my present condition. I am but illy able 
to work, and at best can do but little. Were it not for 
Racketts, and Joe, who helps him, I should be com- 
pelled to give up. Racketts does most of the hard 
work. ’ ’ 

Racketts smiled as he said: 

‘‘Why, indeed. Miss Rebecca, it aint no work at all. 
And then Joe, who blacks the boots, he can do jist any- 
thing. It’s nothin’ but playin’, an’ Joe says so too.” 

‘‘Before he took to his bed, I got along very well, 
but now I am largely dependent on Racketts,” she 
remarked. 

“Yes, but Mamie, Sunbeam I mean, helps me. 
Besides the Major is always along to make it cheerful,” 
said Racketts. 

“Your lot is a very hard one,” I said, “and I do 
not see how you bear your burden. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am feeling better to-day than I have for many 
days. I am more resigned. Yesterday, Miss Grace and 
he and I had a sweet talk together. He was so com- 
forted, and resigned, and I too, partook of his feelings. 
I am stronger to-day, and notwithstanding my sorrow, 
my heart is filled with strength and assurance. Yes, 
stronger than I have been for months. I was con- 
stantly repining and at times quarreling with God. 
In that mental and spiritual condition my burden almost 
crushed me. Nor was he benefited by my humor. He 
is happier to-day than I have seen him since I first knew 


SYMPATHY IS KIND. 


93 


him. There is a sweet peace in his heart which gives 
him courage and contentment. And, as I have said, I 
am strong. You have vSeen me weeping, but there is no 
pain back of my tears. ’ ' 

I melted with emotion as she talked, and when she 
ceased, prompted by an impulse I could not control, I 
stepped to her side and said : 

‘ ‘ I want to kiss you. ’ ^ 

I was afraid to carry out the promptings of my heart, 
which were to take her in my arms and press her to my 
bosom, with the hope that I might lift part of the bur- 
den from her. She stopped her work and turned her 
face full upon me. That look has taken up its abode in 
a chamber of my brain, and there it will remain forever. 
It was angelic. lyove, faith, hope, resignation, and all 
the spiritual splendors were enthroned in it. I took her 
in my arms and pressed her lips with passionate earnest- 
ness. This for a moment. Our lips parted, and our 
heads slipped to the side, and rested on each others 
shoulders. I could feel the beating of her heart, and I 
feared it would break. Through my tear-blinded eyes I 
saw Racketts, resting his forehead on the seat of a chair. 
His sobs fell on my ears. Again fervently and almost 
reverently kissing her, I said : 

^‘Good bye, dear soul, good bye. I will come 
again.'' 

I left the room. For a moment I forgot Grace, and 
turning to reenter the room I met Racketts. 

'‘Wait for Miss Grace," he said. 

"Yes, I must wait for Grace. I will go into the 
hall." 

There I stood until I had entirely recovered my 
composure. Dried my tears away, anxious that Grace 


94 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


should not see how seriously I had been affected. In a 
few minutes I was able to go to Grace. 

When I opened the door of the dying man's room a 
scene was presented which took away my strength, and 
it was with difl&culty that I preserved my composure. 
Grace was sitting close to the bedside. Asleep on her 
lap was Sunbeam, her fair hair resting against Grace’s 
breast, and one of her little arms twined around her 
waist. Grace was reading from the Bible. It was the 
fourteenth chapter of John, that which was uttered by 
the Master as a final comfort to His disciples. The dy- 
ing man’s large, bright eyes were fixed full on her face, 
and one of his emaciated hands was resting on her 
arm which held the book. Frequently her voice trem- 
bled as she read the comforting truths, and there were 
trembled pauses as she proceeded to read. I never heard 
her voice when it was so full of sympathy and pathetic 
tenderness. The words sunk into my heart with a force 
and sweetness I had never felt before. When she fin- 
ished the chapter she was silent for a moment. Bending 
down she pressed the forehead of the sleeping child with 
her lips. The large bright eyes of the dying man grew 
larger and brighter, the parched lips opened and he said: 

‘ ‘Are you really of earth ? Sometimes I think you 
are not a mortal, but belong to the angelic hosts, and 
that God in His merciful love has sent you that I might 
have a foretaste of Heaven. You are mortal, aren’t you? ’ ’ 

After a few moments she answered: 

“ Yes, I am not only mortal, but sinful and unfit to 
be a teacher. My poor, faltering tongue can only 
repeat to you the words of sweet comfort which the 
Savior uttered to console his disciples, and all of us who 
love and serve Him.” 


SYMPATHY IS KIND. 


95 


You have been an angel to me. Your presence is 
a constant, steady light, illuminating the valley of death, 
and resigning me to the will of God. ’ * 

The large eyes closed, and there lay the wasted, 
bloodless face on which rested a halo not born of earth. 

I cleared my throat and said: 

‘ ‘ Grace, I am going. ^ * 

‘‘Yes, dear, go,'’ she replied, without turning her 
face toward me. 

Grace is so thoughtless. She might have known I 
wanted to stay and help her, if possible, in the painful 
work in which she was engaged. Yet, what aid could I 
have given ? None. I was helpless in the presence of 
Mrs. Hastings, and could not comfort her except by em- 
bracing and kissing. Grace was right. I would merely 
have embarrassed the situation, and it was better that I 
left her as I did. 

Just as I reached the front door I met that quaint 
old man. Uncle Tom McElroy. He opened the door in 
my.face, and was humming the “Home of the Soul.” 
His face seemed to melt into the kindest expression. All 
the coarse lines were gone, and in their stead a ripeness 
and sweetness which molded every feature into beauty. 

‘ ‘ Glad to see you. Is your sister within ? ” he 
asked, holding out his hand, which I clasped with more 
warmth than propriety. 

“ You mean my niece. Miss Grace? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes. Sure enough you are her aunt. I 
have heard her speak of you.” 

“ Yes, sir, I am. She is within.” 

‘ ‘ I have not had opportunity to know you well. 
You must be like her, or perhaps, she like you — in heart, 
I mean.” 


96 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE* 


** No, we are widely different/* 

‘*Well, then I am mistaken. Association should 
make you alike, in disposition, at least.*’ 

** No, sir, I am not. Who is like her? ** I asked. 
‘‘Very few, very few,** he replied. “She only 
needs wings. I hope not soon. The world needs her. 
No, we can*t spare her,** he remarked, as he passed in, 
humming the ‘ ‘ Home of the Soul. * * 


CHAPTER XIV. 


‘‘ Sympathy is cold to distant misery '' 

I loitered on, occasionally looking back with the 
hope that Grace was coming, but she came not. As I 
reached the hotel I met Dr. Kirkwood and his wife. 
They bowed to me, he lifting his hat from his head. 
Her face was even sadder than usual. I wonder whether 
she suffers from bodily affliction, or from hidden sorrow ? 
As I looked into her face I thought, “some great, leaden 
grief is oppressing your heart. ^ ’ This is mere conjecture. 
Well, well. It is better that I should not know aught 
concerning her. Yet I thought that her heart was in 
her face. Some wounds can be hidden. Others are so 
deep that they defy human ingenuity. No stoicism can 
shelter them. They take their places in the face as 
though they were too large for the heart to hold. Hers 
is no doubt of this class, and baffles all effort to keep it 
in its prison house. It tells its story from every feature 
and defies the best efforts at dissimulation. Yesterday I 
saw her, pressing Sunbeam to her breast and passion- 
ately kissing her. It is probable that she has lost a child 
that was woof and web and fiber of her heart. She 
finds consolation, at least, if not comfort, in Sunbeam, 
or, perhaps, in any child. It is noticeable that the old 
doctor humors his wife in this child fancy, recognizing 
that the presence of Sunbeam is a joy to his wife. When 
the child approaches them, the doctor goes to meet her, 


98 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


picks her up tenderly and carries her to his wife, and 
presents her with affectionate courtesy. There is no 
doubt of the child’s affection for them, and particularly 
for the wife. She has the sweetest way of clinging to 
her neck, while Mrs. Kirkwood almost devours her with 
kisses. Sunbeam acts as if she appreciated their sorrow 
and feels that she comforts them. 

My heart is getting to be very troublesome. I am 
half inclined to wish I were without one. If it is to 
continue to make me so unhappy, as I am, it were better 
it were stone than the poor flesh and blood thing it is. I 
am getting all mixed up. Why should I be sorrowing ? 
What are these people to me that my sympathy should 
run out toward them, and disquiet and pain possess me ? 
However, human sympathy is an easily contracted senti- 
ment. When desired, it is an easy matter to make a 
compromise with conscience, and argue one’s self into 
complete stoicism. The fault lies in the careless guard- 
ing of the heart. Impulse is a mean master, and a still 
worse friend. It leads into all manner of difficulties and 
disagreeable complications. Life is only valuable and 
useful when judgment holds the scepter. The exercise 
of the latter must be subjected to the severest criticism, 
while the performance of the former must be controlled 
by the narrowest sense. That is a cold thought and 
unworthy of me, but we must be cold or sympathy will 
destroy judgment and make an evil of charity. Our 
interests are involved to a greater or less degree in every 
incident of life. As our affections are involved, so is our 
sympathy measured. A few days ago I read of a tidal 
wave which swept a point on the South American 
coast, carrying to death without a moment’s warning, 
thousands of people. I was intensely shocked by the 


DISTANT MISERY. 


99 


announcement of such a fearful disaster. In less than a 
minute I forgot the incident in some gossip, and, a few 
minutes later, was horrified to read of a runaway in 
which the life of a lady friend was endangered. She 
was not severely hurt, but was prostrated with nervous- 
ness by the shock. 

I forgot all about the death of thousands by the 
tidal wave. Those people were nothing to me. They 
belonged to the great human hive, and I had never come 
in contact with any of them. My affections were not 
involved, and I could easily forget the incident. The 
little finger of my friend was of more value to me than 
ten thousand lives in which I had not a particle of inter- 
est. My friend was necessary, to a limited extent, to 
my happiness. The ten thousand strangers whom I 
knew not, were not. Our affections must be involved 
before we can sympathize with human suffering. We 
must either feel it, see it, or be intimately acquainted in 
some manner, by blood, interest, or community. When 
our happinevSS is threatened, it touches us, and we 
become a part of it. Am I more selfish than others? 
Grace is constantly seeking some condition of human 
existence different from her own, and then grafts her 
heart to it. She seems most happy when she has abun- 
dant material to make her miserable. I am cynical this 
morning. Am in an abnormal condition, and think my 
mind is not acting healthfully. I wrong Grace by the 
assumption in which I have indulged. It is unselfish- 
ness and goodness which prompt her charitable deeds 
and I, well, I am selfish. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Love errs in judgment and misguidesihe mind^ 

I have been sleeping for two hours. Grief always 
makes me weary. Grace is not yet home. 

''I wonder what detains her,” I said, speaking to 
myself. 

Nothing detains her.” 

This came from the lounge. Grace was lying there 
with her face buried in a pillow. I stepped to her side 
and seated myself on an ottoman. She did not speak, 
and I stooped and kissed her. She threw her head in 
my lap and sobbed. 

” Don’t,” I said, ” It pains me to see you weep.” 

It relieves me,” she answered. 

”Then weep on. I know you need relief. Your 
sympathy has loaded your heart with sorrow,” I said, 
pressing her brow with my hand. 

” It is a precious burden, and I delight in carrying 
it. All the sorrow in my heart is just that much less 
for them to carry. ’ ’ 

' ‘ Oh Grace, I had not thought of that. My heart 
has been aching, and I have been grumbling with 
myself, that I permitted my sympathies to run out 
toward those people. While with them, I felt that it 
was entirely proper for me to exhibit emotion. It was a 
duty, I thought, but when I got home, I felt that I had 

better remained away, and thus not familiarized myself 

100 


LOVE ERRS. 


101 


with their suffering. There is so much of it in the 
world that, if we seek for it, we shall constantly be 
unhappy. If by suffering I can lessen their load, per- 
haps it is my duty to bear it. Do you feel that our 
sympathy has lessened their grief? 

'‘They are much happier than before they knew 
us,’’ she replied. 

" What makes you think so ? ” 

" I know they are. It is not necessary for them to 
tell me so,” she continued. " I can read it in their 
faces. The poor wife, after you had gone, told me that 
you had shared her burden. Your interview greatly 
strengthened her. She said that she was more resigned, 
and better prepared for her duty. ’ ’ 

' ' Grace, dear, I am a wicked woman. I was wish- 
ing that I did not have a heart, or, if I must have one, 
that it were incapable of sympathy — one of stone. ’ ’ 

"Well, my dear aunt, if such were your thoughts 
you were wicked. There is nothing of us worth any- 
thing but our hearts. Brains, give them their way, 
make unfeeling monsters of us. They turn the heart to 
winter, cold, cold winter. We are dead, living dead.” 

" Oh Grace, how wretchedly selfish I am. I had 
not thought of my duty, in the broad sense in which 
you put it. I was full of pity for these people, but I 
never thought of sharing their sorrows, and thus aiding 
them to bear them. Pity is only akin to sympathy. 
The latter is the active element, and its expression is to 
relieve by sharing the burden. ’ ’ 

' ' Pity carries with it the selfish congratulation that 
we are not suffering, ” replied Grace, and then continuing: 

' ' Sympathy is the helping hand, when it is possible 
to help. It is indeed the active principle in all chari- 


102 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


table work. To give from pity is a perfunctory act. We 
dismiss the incident which arouses it ; but sympathy 
goes into the heart of the incident which awakens it, 
and abides with it, sharing its burden, weeping with 
those who weep, and rejoicing with those who rejoice. 
Not possessed of it, we are of the living dead.^’ 

She repeated the last sentence and then walked to 
the door. I had not heard the rap. When she opened 
it, there stood Racketts, and the Major, with a small 
basket of washed laces. 

' ‘ Where is Sunbeam ? ’ ’ she asked. 

* ‘ She is with Dr. and Mrs. Kirkwood. ’ ' 

^ ‘ I told you to bring her with you. ' ' 

‘‘Yes, Miss Grace, and I was doin' it, until we got 
to the veranda. There the old doctor jist picked her up 
without saying a word, and carried her to his wife. 
They’s so kind to her that I couldn’t say anything. 
Why, even the Major seemed pleased and run after her, 
which is his duty, until I called him back. They jist 
dotes on her. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Here, Grace, you can see her from this window, ’ ’ 
I said. 

She came to where I was standing. On the beach 
was the old Doctor, with Sunbeam in his arms, while his 
invalid wife was close to his side, one hand hidden in 
the golden curls of Sunbeam. Grace took in the scene 
for a few moments, and then said: 

“That child is a perfect worriment. I told her 
when she was last with me, that she must not permit 
that old Doctor to fondle her. Now look ! She is in his 
arms, and has one of her arms around his neck, while 
Mrs. Kirkwood is toying with the child’s hair. I will 
have to ask her mother to forbid the constant intimacy. 


I,OVB ERRS. 


103 


I wish those two people would leave here before he 
dies. ' ’ 

‘‘Why, Grace/' I said, in surprise, “ a moment ago 
you were the pink of sweetness, and all heart. Now 
you are the essence of gall. Why do you exhibit such 
seeming malignant hate toward the Doctor and his wife ? 
Are you so selfish as to desire to monopolize the child's 
love? May she not give a little to those two people 
whose whole demeanor indicates that they too have 
sorrow ? They love the child. She gives them comfort, 
and it is evident that Sunbeam dearly loves them. Is it 
not possible, nay, probable, that the child reminds them 
of a little one they have lost, and whose presence has 
been in their hearts for years? The child no doubt 
reminds them of a lost darling. Only yesterday I saw 
the old lady pressing the child to her heart, and holding 
her there as if she would like to do so forever. ’ ' 

“That is just it. I, too, believe that they have 
a sorrow such as you suggest. What I fear is, 
that in the event of the death of the father, those 
people will endeavor to heal their own wounds by 
opening wider those of the poor widowed mother. 
It is most probable that they will offer to relieve 
her of part of her heavy burden by adopting Sun- 
beam, and at the moment when she is overloaded with 
grief, they will have the cruelty to ask her to give up 
another idol. They will then find me in the breach. 
What do the worldly rich know of the poor, and the 
wretched and the grief-stricken, or what consideration 
do they give to the suffering humble ? To them the 
poor are mere beasts of burden, existing only to admin- 
ister to the wants or pleasures of their more fortunate 
(in a worldly sense) fellow beings. The haughty reserve 


104 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


and studied isolation of the Kirkwoods, show that they 
are cold, heartless, vulgar people, and who will see no 
impropriety in taking the step I suggest. What would 
they care for snapping heart cords, if their sorrows 
were eased? Such people never hear the throbbing 
of the poor. But they shall not have her, even though 
she were to become motherless when she becomes father- 
less. Were the mother to sink into the grave under the 
cumulative weight of her sorrow. Sunbeam shall not be 
theirs, ’ ' Grace said, with most emphatic tone and gesture. 

'‘Grace,'' I replied, "your indignation has gotten 
the better of your judgment. A fiction is possessing 
you. They are not vulgar people, and you know it. 
I make no claim to being unerring in reading hearts by 
looking into faces and eyes, and yet I am confident that 
those two people need your sympathy to the very largest 
degree. They are sufferers who sip from sorrow's cup 
every hour of the day. Physically they seem in health, 
though it is most apparent that mental and heart agony 
are wearing the life out of Mrs. Kirkwood. I do not 
think them haughty, nor cold, nor heartless. They are 
dignified and reserved, but in my opinion, their grief 
is so great that they have no moments to give to society. 
Were they to mingle with the crowd, their unhappiness 
would be increased. Is the affection they show for the 
child evidence of cold heartedness? Oh, no. She 
relieves their grief, and every time Mrs. Kirkwood 
presses Sunbeam to her breast, her heart pain is softened. 
You misjudge them. They are refined, cultivated peo- 
ple, husbanding a sorrow. The poor to them are as the 
rich. True, they are reserved, and seclusive, courting 
the wealthy no more than the poor, and asking no sym- 
pathy, but are content in bearing their own burdens 


LOVB ERRS* 


105 


without the help of others. Were they aware of the 
sorrow in the cottage, their hearts would ache more 
keenly than they do. ’ * 

‘'Why have they not discovered that there is suffer- 
ing in the cottage ? ' ’ she asked, following the three with 
her eyes as they walked along the beach.* 

“They, like I, would not have discovered it, until 
it was too late to serve. You have fortunate incidents 
and accidents almost every instant of your life, which 
give cast to your desire. “ 

“Well, let us dismiss the subject. As usual you 
will have your own way about the matter. I hope I am 
mistaken in my estimate of them, yet I fear I am 
not.“ Calling Racketts, she asked, “Where does Mrs. 
Kirkwood get her laces washed ? ' ' 

“ Her does it. He*s very kind and always sends a 
bill to Mrs. Hastings. When I took the first change 
back to him, he told me to take it back to Mrs. Hast- 
ings, and say that he always fixed the price on work 
done for him. Sometimes the bill is big, and then Mrs. 
Hastings she cries. A few days ago he gave me a bill 
and told me to send it to my mother. ’ ’ 

“ What does he know about your mother?” asked 
Grace, petulantly. 

“All,” replied Racketts. 

“ All ? What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean. Miss Grace, that he and his wife got me 
to tell them all about the dear old soul, and she cried 
and kissed me, and the Doctor, he asked where my 
mother lived in the city, and said he would write a letter 
to her about me, and he did, and he read it to me, and 
he told her I was good, and that for my sake he was 
sending her a present, and it was a bank bill, for I saw 


106 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


him put it in, and I took it to the mail, and mother got 
it, for she wrote back and thanked him, and he likes the 
Major, and he says that Major and I shall work for him 
when we all go back to the city, and that hell buy a 
muzzle for him, and I hope you aint mad with me.*' 

When the boy ceased, Grace was resting her head in 
her hands, and so remained for some moments. When 
she spoke, it was to say : 

' ‘ Go and bring Sunbeam to me. Tell Dr. Kirk- 
wood that Miss Grace Preston wants her for a few 
minutes, and that she will send her back to them. Now 
hurry. * * Then turning to me, she said : 

* ‘ Aunt Rebecca, will you put the things away ? I 
am so tired. I feel like lying down." 

As she passed me I saw that her eyes were moist, 
and her cheeks were flushed. 

‘‘ Yes, dear, lie down. You need rest. Shall I call 
you when Sunbeam comes ? * * 

No, send her in to me." 

In a few minutes Racketts returned with the child. 

* * What did Dr. Kirkwood say when you told him 
who wanted Sunbeam ? " I asked. 

'‘They both kissed her, and he said: "Racketts, 
you will give Miss Preston our respects, and say we take 
pleasure in sending her Sunbeam." He thinks you are 
both hunkie, because Sunbeam and me is always tellin* 
them about you, and how good you are." 

I sent the child in to Grace, and all I heard her say 
was, " Come here, dear. Now go to sleep." 

Racketts interested me by telling me who was at 
the hotel, and dwelling on the extraordinary qualities of 
the Major and Joe. 

" Who is Joe ? " I inquired. 


LOVE ERRS. 


107 


He's a nigger boy who plays with me." 

" Do you like to play with negro boys ? " 

“ Yes, with Joe, 'cause he's kind. He comes down 
here from the city with me, and works around almost 
everywhere. He helps me all he can, and I helps him 
all I can." 

" Then you are old friends," I remarked. 

"I fust knowed Joe when little sister died. We 
was livin' on the wharf then, and little sister took sick, 
and there was a long time she lived in bed or in 
mother’s arms, and I was sick too, not much though, 
but I couldn't go for the doctor, and so Joe would go 
for the doctor, and when sister got worse, Joe's mother 
she came and stayed in our house, all the time nearly, 
helpin' mother and takin’ care of me, 'cause mother 
couldn't take care of little sister an' me too, and at last 
little sister died, an’ then mother wasn't able to sit up 
any more, and Joe’s mother put her to bed and stayed 
with her, and I was so excited I got well, and a man 
came an' put little sister in the coffin, and Joe he had got 
a furniture wagon, and said to me, ‘Racketts, we is the 
funeral,’ and he and me got into the wagon, side of the 
coffin, and the funeral started, and we saw her buried, 
and we both cried, and ever since then I play with Joe.” 

I had to go out into the hall for something, but 
when I got there I could not think what it was. When 
I returned, Grace and Sunbeam were there. Taking 
Sunbeam by the hand she left, remarking : 

"We are going to Miss McMillan’s room to see about 
Miss Dolly, who has been spending the day there. Sun- 
beam says that she fears her ladyship is sick, and is con- 
fident Miss Flora has neglected her. Has Racketts 
gone ? ' ' 


108 SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 

‘Just this moment he passed me in the hall. He 
told me he would be back soon. ' ’ 

“Tell him he need not wait for Sunbeam, I will take 
her home*“ 


CHAPTER XVI. 


‘‘ Thou'rt such a touchy, testy fellow^^ 

I^ast evening I was sitting on the veranda, when 
Mr. Cowls came hobbling along. In response to a smile 
and recognition, he was kind enough to stop and enter- 
tain me. He has a penchant for criticising everybody 
at the hotel. He detests ultra fashionable people, and is 
rather pitiless, and perhaps unjust, in his denunciation 
of the follies and pretensions which our weakness or 
vanity force us to exhibit. He was in hot pursuit of Mr. 
Primrose, when the proprietor, Mr. Potts, hove in sight. 
Mr. Cowls gathered his crutches closely under himself, 
and turned his back to the advancing Potts. The latter 
stopped, bowed to me very respectfully, and stood silently 
listening to Mr. Cowls. Only a moment or two was al- 
lowed to pass, when Mr. Potts interjected the remark : 

‘‘Too severe, my dear Mr. Cowls. Yes. Too severe. 
Yes. Mr. Primrose is a very proper person. Yes. And 
one of my guests. Yes.” 

“He is, is he? Don’t ‘dear’ me, Potts. How dare 
you do so? You’re a skin deep man. You talk from 
your teeth or your pocket,” replied Mr. Cowls, evidently 
excited. 

“It is my duty to protect my guests. Yes. Mr. 
Primrose is a very proper person. Yes. He is a sensible 
young man.” 

“So he is. Ought to be keeping a hotel on the 

199 


110 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


beach. Has about sense enough for it, for it requires 
but little,'' said Mr. Cowls, as he hobbled away. 

‘ 'Touched one of his sores," said Potts. "Yes. One 
of his sores. There is a good deal of tartar in that bundle 
of rheumatism. Yes. Feels hot the moment he sees 
me. My presence is his occasion. Yes. I came inten- 
tionally. Yes. He needed his block. Yes. I was 
away all the afternoon, and he has been on the lookout 
for me for hours. Yes. Yes. He is anathemizing me 
this minute, but he will sleep better tonight. Yes."- 

Just at this moment Mr. Potts, to my regret, was 
called away. He is a character, and can only be sketched 
by regular sittings. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


** Stupidity and pretensions^ 

This morning Grace was up with the sun, and away 
along the beach before the servants were stirring. She 
was at the cottage, and was met by Mr. McMillan on 
her way back. She has been oyster dumb about her 
love since she received her father’s letter, until after 
breakfast this morning, when she said : 

‘‘You had better write to father.” 

“Have you written ? ” 

“No, and will not.” 

“The condition has not arisen on which you rested 
your correspondence. I am not drowned. What shall 
I say to him ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“That will be a short letter.” 

“Yes, father likes brevity. ’ ’ 

“Then you had better write, if there is nothing to 
say.” 

“No, you are the scribe. Besides I will need all my 
powers when he arrives. Much talk will be necessary, 
and I shall have to do it. That will be a great relief to 
you,” she replied with a quizzical smile. 

“Yes, I know how much you will relieve me. I ex- 
pect to bear the brunt of this adventure, if brunt there 
is.” 

“Indeed you will. Your carelessness has lost Pa 
111 


112 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


his daughter. Nor will it in the least soften his anger 
that you have found him a son saying which, she, 
laughing, and swinging her hat by the strings, left the 
room. Those two people cannot be out of each others 
presence an hour during the day and earlier part of the 
night. Without prearrangement, they will know where 
to find each other any moment of the day. George Mc- 
Millan is leisurely walking toward the hotel. 

I sought the seat I had occupied on the veranda, 
where Mr. Cowls and Potts had their spat. I was in 
hopes that one or both of them would pass my way. 
Scarcely was I seated when Flora McMillan and Mr. 
Primrose put in an appearance. I rose with intent of 
going to my room, when Flora’s voice fairly split the air 
with: 

* 'Don’t you go. I want you.” 

I was compelled to remain. 

"Of course you are acquainted with Mr. Primrose?” 
she said. 

"Yes, I replied, I had the honor of meeting Mr. 
Primrose the night of the storm.” 

"Yes, indeed, you did,” he said languidly and with- 
out salutation. "You comforted mother very much. 
You told us that the beastly water was going back.” 

While he talked, I photographed him. He reminds 
me of pictures I have seen of an Austrian infantry sol- 
dier. His clothes fit his person as a kid glove should a 
lady’s hand. It must be difiicult for him to move about. 
The material must be excellently and stoutly put to- 
gether. The probability is, that a quick movement to a 
stooping posture, would result in a mortifying accident. 
As if to test the probability, Miss Flora dropped her fan. 
He exhibited much adroitness in picking it up. As he 


STUPIDITY AND PRETENSION. 


113 


Stooped, his left leg was thrown to the rear, until it rested 
on the tip of the toe. His right bowed instead of bend- 
ing. His left hand was thrown across the small of his 
back, apparently necessary to keep his equilibrium. He 
stepped close to where it was lying, and cautiously went 
through the movement I have described, in picking it 
up. As he straightened he took a step backward, and, 
unfortunately, trod on the tail of a small dog that was 
dozing on the floor. The little animal yelped from pain, 
while Mr. Primrose dropped the fan, turned pale, and 
fell into a chair with the exclamation: 

“I’m bit.” 

‘‘ No, you are not,” said Flora. 

” Yes I am. I feel the blood running down my leg. 
Where’s mother ? What’s she always away for ? ” 

As though in response to his inquiry, his mother 
turned the corner of the veranda. The moment she saw 
his starchy colored face, she sprang to his side with: 
”Oh! What is it?” 

I’m bit by the dog,” he gasped. 

” You are not,” said Flora in a vexed tone. 

” Oh, my poor son!” Then turning to Flora, He 
knows.” 

” Why didn’t you have him driven away, mother? ” 
” Mr. Primrose,” I said, ”you are not bitten. The 
little dog is the only one hurt. ’ ’ 

This was partly reassuring. He examined the calf 
of his leg, rubbing his hand up and down it. 

” I know that one of these days I’ll die of hydro- 
phobia. Dogs have a spite at me, and are constantly 
trying to bite me. Only a year ago one tore a piece out 
of my trousers. Didn’t he, mother? ” 

8 


114 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 

'‘Yes, my son, but don't talk about it," she replied, 
patting his cheeks. 

‘ ‘ I wish there were no dogs. They are of no use 
and ought to be killed. I hate dogs, and want them all 
poisoned, as they do in the large cities," he drawled. 

" Come to your room, my son, and get composed," 
said his mother, taking him by the arm and half lifting him 
out of the chair. As he stepped forward. Flora dropped 
her glove. He looked at it for a moment, and then said: 

"I'm too weak." 

Leaning on his mother he went to his room. A few 
minutes after the hotel doctor was seen entering it. 

‘ ' The poor ninny. I will send for a supply of dogs, 
and quarter them near his room. They will be 'biters' 
too. Don't you think they will add to his comfort?" 
said Flora. 

Before I could make any reply, she asked, " Where is 
Grace? " 

" I don't know. She left me an hour ago, without 
saying where she was going. Did you meet her this 
morning ? ' ' 

"Yes, met her at the door of the breakfast hall. 
Brother stopped with her for a few moments. After 
breakfast, when he had located me with Mr. Primrose, 
he left. I had been with Mr. Primrose an hour before 
we met you." 

' ' Flora, how is it possible for you to spend an hour 
with that man ? " I asked. 

"Easily, very easily. First, he feeds my vanity. 
Second, I feed his vanity. Third, I find pleasure in the 
ridiculous. Fourth, I am anxious to enlarge my infor- 
tion of man — want to see every variety of the genus 
homo. This one is a rare specimen. ' ' 


STUPIDITY AND PRETENSION. 


116 


“No doubt he is, but a disgusting one,'* I inter- 
jected. 

“Oh, Miss Rebecca, you must relieve yourself of 
prejudice. I am sorry I interfered to save you." 

“Interfered to save me! " I exclaimed, astonished. 

“Yes, indeed, I did. Grace told me of the annoy- 
ance he was giving you, and I determined to step be- 
tween. He would be going through these graceful 
movements for your fan or glove, instead of mine, had I 
not deliberately set to work to divert his thoughts from 
an object he was determined to worship. He had been 
adoring you in secret for weeks, and was just on the 
point of showing his devotion in words and deeds, when 
my angelic presence dispelled the illusion. ’ ' 

“All I can say in return is, ‘thanks.’ I cannot im- 
agine a more insufferable annoyance, than to be the 
object of admiration in the brain of such a nonenity. 
He is the most utterly unattractive man I ever met." 

“ You wrong him, my dear Miss Rebecca. He is 
not entirely destitute of value. Do you not observe that 
I make him useful ? I have weighed his capabilities, 
intellectual, emotional, moral and physical. He has suf- 
ficient of the first to make him a responsible being — no 
more. Is flooded with the second, and when not express- 
ing itself at the bidding of his nerves or his mother, or 
some being he thinks he loves, he is simply stupid and 
very uninteresting. The third is so dwarfed that it is 
impossible for him to distinguish any difference between 
himself and the Supreme Being. The fourth has been 
so confined in tight clothes, that its development has 
been seriously retarded. Were it possible to get him out 
of them, he would burst into an Appollo Belvidere. I 


116 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


am determined to relieve him, if it can be done by his 
stooping.'' 

She was interrupted by Grace who came upon us 
unobserved. 

'‘Your brother is making inquiry for you," she said 
as she entered. 

' ' When did he ask for me ? At the door of the 
breakfast room, where we met you hours ago?" she 
asked with a laugh. 

"No. Did I say he inquired of me ? " 

"No, sweet, you did not. What has he been say- 
ing to you to make you so serious ? ' ' 

' ‘ Describing the moon to me — picturing its barren- 
ness and desolation, and informing me that the earth, 
some of these beautiful days a million or so years hence, 
will be like unto the present condition of the moon. I 
was sad from thinking of the unpleasant situation of the 
people living at that time. Sad thought, was it not ? ' ' 

' ' Very. Poor moon. ' ' 

"Yes, and poor earth that is to be." 

They both laughed. Flora went in search of her 
brother, and Grace and I to our rooms. 

" When do you expect your father," I asked. 

" Don't expect him at all." 

"Why, Grace, you surprise me. Have you received 
another letter ? He said in your letter, and also in mine, 
that he would be down soon. Now, you say that you do 
not expect him." 

" Why should I ? He will come just as soon as his 
business will permit. Why should I worry myself 
indulging in expectations ? " 

" Well, I am impatient to learn his conclusions as to 
Mr. McMillan, and I think it strange that such an im- 


STUPIDITY AND PRETENSION. 


117 


portant matter does not command more immediate atten- 
tion. Now, while I have not spoken to you on the sub- 
ject, it absorbs most of my thought.’’ 

Why, auntie, you dear old soul, why should you 
fret ? I am unconcerned. Know as well what he will 
say as if he had said it.” 

What will he say,” I asked. 

' ‘ He will bid me love Mr. McMillan with all my 
mind, and with all my heart, and with all my soul. You 
know what a difficult task that will be,” she said in a 
distressed tone of voice. 

“Yes, to love him more than you do. Your heart 
and soul and senses are involved to their utmost capac- 
ity. If he require more, he will impose an impossibil- 
ity,” I replied. 

“ Aunt Rebecca, you are right. My life is a flood 
of joy. I have a well in my heart, which is continually 
overflowing with a wealth of love, compared with which, 
all other things are valueless. All the morning I have 
been walking with him. He spoke no word of love, yet 
every word he uttered was weighted with it. He is not 
effusive, and so I wish him to remain. I desire no 
declaration. Protestations would grow tame, and affir- 
mations commonplace and stupid. The sweetest pain in 
the world is born of a doubt. What will I say to father 
when he asks me for my sentiments ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Frankly say you love George McMillan. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I love him. That is what I will say.” 

“ That will end it,” I replied. 

“ No, that will begin it. Eternity will not end it,” 
she replied as she left me. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Evening, nighty morning'^ 

This was the most beautiful evening I ever saw. 
The sun went down bathed in exquisite glory — such as 
will surround him when he sinks to rest under the edict 
of eternity, when time shall be no more. It seemed a 
regal death, and all the elements and forces which are 
the offspring of his mighty heart, were present. Just 
an hour before he set, the atmosphere assumed a deeper 
blue than I have ever before seen. To the east, the 
ocean and the sky were of the same color, and it was 
impossible to mark where they blended. The sea seemed 
to reach far into the heavens, and mighty ships appeared 
to be sailing on the sky. In the west, from the horizon 
to the meridian, flocks of white wind-ladened clouds were 
in rapid motion. Above these were long strips of mist, 
looking tangled and lost. Above these were sheet 
clouds, thin, but compact, without any visible motion. 
Above all was the deep blue ether, in the illimitable 
space of which, the universe is housed. As the sun 
sunk lower, the heavier clouds colored to maroon, 
and then to purple. The misty strips became scarlet 
streams, while the upper strata assumed the rarest of 
pink. Away to the south, lay a great bank, apparently 
the remnant of a storm, the center of which was raven 
black. Scarcely had his majesty disappeared, when the 
blue in the east turned to blackness, and distance was 


118 


EVENING, NIGHT, MORNING. 


119 


lost to vision. Night came as if whipped from its hid- 
ing place. It struggled up the zenith until it met the 
clouds, still radiant with the fire which the life-breathing 
god of day’s expiring power infused into them. There 
was an apparent struggle for supremacy, a going out 
and returning of the rich colors. Suddenly night con- 
quered, the colors vanished, and darkness embraced 
every fleecy speck. The great monster lying to the 
south, whose heart refused to be penetrated by the 
golden sunshine of expiring day, kept up vivid flashes, 
protesting its supremacy over darkness. It seemed a 
human thing filled with electric power. In a few min- 
utes the stars came, not one by one, but all at once, 
filling illimitable space with their dazzling beauty, and 
jeweling the night as though begging comparison with 
the day. Quietly and slowly the east grew light, pro- 
claiming the advent of the great pensioner. In a few 
moments the full round moon, silver- faced, leaped upon 
the waters, dispelling the darkness and putting to sleep 
myriads of night’s jewels. Only a few remained to 
dispute with the stately queen for the homage of mortals. 
While I sat absorbed with the scene, Grace entered with: 

'' We are all going to the village to-night. So get 
ready. ’ ’ 

What has suggested this visit,” I inquired. 

‘ ‘ A confidential communication from Racketts. 
There is to be a concert there to-night, and we are going 
to attend. ’ ’ 

‘ ' Who gives it ? ” 

‘ ‘ One of the village maids. Racketts was not very 
communicative. Said he dared not say much, but 
hinted that Mr. Cowls would be pleased to see us there. 


120 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


So I promised him we would all attend, meaning Flora, 
Mr. McMillan, you and 

All have promised to attend? I inquired. 

' /Yes, and they will be ready before us. So bustle, 
my ^ear. There is no use of primping. ’ ' 

‘ ' I suppose you think you have landed your fish ? ’ * 

‘'Aunt Rebecca, you have forgotten the covenant. 
Think of that crippled — ' ’ 

“ Grace, don’t say it.” 

” Well, then, be good and sweet, and obedient.” 

In a few minutes we were ready, and, seated in an 
open carriage, we started for the village, Mr. McMillan 
driving. 

” Is there any danger? ” I asked. “Can Mr. McMil- 
lan drive ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Better than Apollo, ’ ’ she answered in a whisper. 

It is a quaint old town, fearfully scattered, and 
destitute of paved sidewalks. Sand abounded. We 
stopped at the village hotel, a rickety weather-boarded 
building, all dried up and cracked, with one of its ends 
several inches lower than the other. The landlord, as 
they called him, said we were late, as the concert was to 
commence at early candle lighting, and that hour had 
passed some time ago. However, he had not heard the 
music yet, and supposed the concert hadn’t commenced. 
We were soon at the church door. The room was 
crowded, but on purchasing our tickets and presenting 
ourselves at the door, the good people made way for us 
and we passed in. A rough, weather-beaten old fisher- 
man, whom Grace had met on the beach, recognized her, 
and he rose from his seat, and, proceeding up the aisle, 
requested us to follow. On reaching the front pews we 


EVENING, NIGHT, MORNING. 


121 


observed that there was a vacant one. Turning to Grace, 
he said: 

“ Go in. It’ll be all right. He directed it to be 
saved. They hold six, and he and the other cripple can 
get in too. ’ ’ 

We took seats. In a few minutes there was a com- 
motion at the door, and ‘ ‘ There they come ’ ’ could be 
heard over all parts of the audience. My surprise was 
great when I turned my head. Mr. Cowls, on his 
crutches, came first, hobbling along, followed by 
Racketts, holding the hand of a young girl. Mr. Cowls 
paused at the entrance of our pew, bowed and smiled, 
and took a seat in it. Racketts led the young girl to the 
altar, and seated her at the organ. He removed her hat 
and brought it with him to our pew, Mr. Cowles moving 
up close to Mr. McMillan, to give the boy a seat. I was 
attracted more by Racketts than by the girl. When I 
looked toward her, I saw that she was blind. Her large 
dumb eyes stared into vacancy. Her face was marvel- 
ously beautiful, of Grecian type. The contour was 
perfect ; the complexion rivaled the tints of the sea 
shell, and the expression was heavenly. She touched 
the keys and commenced ''There Is a Land of Pure 
Delight. ’ ’ Her voice was sweet beyond my power to 
describe, with excellent range and texture, not exhibit- 
ing much cultivation, but telling of almost limitless 
possibilities. Then followed, "Jesus, Lover of My 
Soul ; " Rock of Ages; ” " Oh, for a Thousand 

Tongues to Sing," and several other selections from the 
Methodist Hymnal. She closed with the " Fisherman’s 
Daughter." The evening was most delightfully spent. 
Mr. Cowls gathered himself on his crutches and stepped 
toward the altar, giving us easy egress from the pew. 


122 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


It was evident that Grace was not going to leave until 
she had made the acquaintance of the singer. She 
pressed up to Mr. Cowls, and spoke to him in a low 
tone. 

''Certainly, certainly, yes, she will be pleased,** 
said Mr. Cowls. 

Grace went to the side of the girl and bending down 
kissed her. 

" Who is it ? ** asked the blind girl. 

"Why, it’s Miss Grace I’ve been tellin* you of,** 
replied Racketts. 

' ' Oh, yes, I know you. Miss. Racketts has told 
me about you. Where is the other lady ? * * she asked. 

" She wants to see you. Miss Rebecca,** said Rack- 
etts. " She’s askin’ for you.’* 

I stepped forward, took her hand and thanked her 
for the pleasure she had given me. Flora came too, and 
in her rollicking spirit, complimented the singer. Grace 
was talking to Mr. Cowls. 

‘ ‘ I should have sent you tickets had I thought you 
would have found pleasure in attending. Would have 
been honored in serving you,’* said Mr. Cowls. 

"Thanks. We were fortunate in learning that the 
concert was to be given. It has been a delightful even- 
ing to me. I was surprised to see such a large audience. 
Why, the whole village must have been here.’* 

" Yes, they are all here. They all turn out to hear 
her. ’ * 

' ' Then she gives them frequently ? * * 

" Only one each season,*’ replied Mr. Cowls. 

" She should give another. Were it known at the 
beach how sweetly she sings, all the visitors would pat- 
ronize her. We can advertise her,** replied Grace. 


EVENING, NIGHT, MORNING. 


123 


Not for the world. Not for the world. It would 
subject her to the criticism of the ignorant and the fools. 
I will talk to you further about it, but not here. She 
might hear us. Not here,** said Mr. Cowls, as he 
started to the door. 

He won’t have but one,” said Racketts. “They 
are his. He buys all the tickets himself, and sends them 
to the people, so they all come. Then he gives her 
all the money. She don’t know how he works it. 
She can’t see. She’s blind. Tomorrow he’ll drive 
over here and tell her all about it — how the church was 
so full, and that you were here, and how pleased every- 
body was. That’s the way he did last year, and all 
the money she got isn’t gone yet, for she told me.” 

“Stop talking,” said Grace. “Come to see me 
tomorrow morning. ’ ’ 

“ Where is Racketts,” inquired the blind girl. 

He was at her side in a moment. 

“ Here I is. Come on. He’s waiting at the door.” 
Saying which he aided her to adjust her hat, then tak- 
ing her hand he led her from the church. At the door 
stood Mr. Cowls, surrounded by the villagers, who were 
paying him the utmost deference and respect. We 
waited until Mr. Cowls and his protege had gotten 
into a carriage. As we passed from the door, we 
noticed that nearly the entire audience was waiting. We 
had been the object of curiosity from the moment we 
entered the church. Our ride back was delicious. There 
was what is called a “spanking breeze” sweeping in from 
the ocean, and when we reached the beach, each felt as 
though he had been drinking wine, so exhilarating had 
been our ride. 


124 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


In a few minutes Mr. Cowls, and his driver, Rack- 
etts, arrived. Scarcely was the former helped from the 
buggy when he inquired for Grace. 

She was strolling the veranda with Mr. McMillan, 
but we sent for her. Mr. Cowls requested a private 
talk, and the two went apart from us, where they 
remained for a few minutes. Just as Mr. Cowls was in 
the act of bidding us good night, Mr. Potts, in slippers, 
stepped up. 

Very pleasant evening, ladies and gentlemen, yes, 
very pleasant. Been out driving ? Yes. Beautiful 
night to drive. Yes.’' 

Mr. Cowls’ manner changed instantly. He scarcely 
finished his good night, but hurriedly hobbled away, 
looking back over his left shoulder and scowling at Potts. 
I could see that his lips were moving rapidly, but no 
sound, that I could hear, came from them. I concluded 
that he was enjoying what Potts calls one of his luxu- 
ries. Potts glanced after Mr. Cowls, and then said : 

‘'Has his moods. Yes. Is in one of them now. 
Yes. It’s late for him to indulge in one. Yes. Usually 
at this hour calls me Mr. Potts and speaks kindly. Yes. 
Has reviewed the day, and his heart has mellowed. 
Yes. Was too busy to use his block in the early part of 
the evening. Yes. Will not go to bed till he corners 
me. Yes. I’ll intentionally run against him, so that he 
will not fret waiting for me. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Potts,” said Grace, “you appear to know Mr. 
Cowls. ’ ’ 

” Know him, yes, better than if I had laid his keel. 
Yes. Know him all over, inside and out. Yes. See 
what a big head he has. Yes. Big as it is, it is smaller 
than his heart. Yes. Much smaller. Yes. I’m nec- 


EVENING, NIGHT, MORNING. 


125 


essary to his happiness. Yes. Would be miserable 
without me. Yes. Miserable. I have to humor him 
to make him happy. Yes. Have to be disagreeable, and I 
am. Yes, disagreeable — the last thing I want to be, only I 
am so that he may sleep well. Yes. Just now I inter- 
rupted him. Yes. Past his bed- time. Yes. Ought to 
have been asleep two hours ago. Yes. Thinks I don’t 
know him. Yes. He’ s doing a little cussing now. Yes. 
Strange, very strange, but it does him good. Yes. Wants 
me to believe that he is savage, cruel and malignant. 
Yes. Deceives himself. Yes. I’m up to all his conceits, 
but I’m always blind and dumb. Yes. I was out there 
tonight. Yes. I attend all of them. Yes. This is the 
third. Yes. Didn’t show myself. Yes. Looked in 
the window. Saw you all. Yes. Saw him. Yes. 
Saw him, saw what none of you did. Yes. Saw the 
big tears in his eyes. Yes. Big tears. Yes. He 
turned his head away from you all when the water came. 
Turned toward me at the window. Yes. Looked right 
at me, but the tears blinded him. Yes. It is well they 
did, or he would have seen me. Yes. If he had, he 
would have gone into snipgins and discommoded the con- 
cert. Yes. Would have torn the church down getting 
out, if he had seen me through his tears. Yes.” 

”And were you there ? ” asked Grace. 

Of course I was. Yes. I have been to them all. 
Yes. But he has never seen me there. Yes. He thinks 
he is playing his cards close to his breast, but I see them 
all. Yes. He deceives the blind girl. Yes. Deceives 
her. Makes her believe that the concert nets over three 
hundred dollars in that rickety old town. Yes. He gets 
them up. Nobody buys a ticket. Yes. He takes them 
all. Yes. Sends them to everybody with the compli- 


126 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


ments of ‘ William Cowls.’ Yes. Were you ever at the 
blind girl’s home? Yes. Her grandmother is very old 
but very interesting. Yes. Antedates everybody in 
this section. Yes. Jessie has been blind since she was 
seven years old. Yes. Just went blind. Yes. Her 
big, black eyes grew blacker, and the little spots in the 
center went out. Yes. Then she was blind. Yes. 
Blind. The birds taught her to sing, and now she beats 
them. Yes. They brought her over here one day and 
Mr. Cowls heard her. Yes. Somebody, maybe it was 
I, told him her story. Yes. One day he obtruded him- 
self on them. Yes. Now he’s there every sunshiny 
day. Yes. He gets up the concerts so that he may, 
without asking, make a contribution. Yes. That’s 
what he calls it. Yes. A contribution. Yes. East 
winter he sent for me, and when I went to him he called 
me ‘my dear Potts. ’ Yes. Said that he was thinking 
as the winter was so intense that the blind girl and her 
grandmother might be suffering. Yes. It was near the 
holidays. Yes, and he said that if he could find some dis- 
creet person, yes, discreet person, he would send them a 
little present. Yes, a little present. Yes, some discreet 
person. Yes. That was I. Yes. So he bolted me 
down here in the bitter winter weather with hampers and 
baskets and bundles, because I was a discreet person. 
Yes. I was just to deliver them without saying whom 
they were from. Yes. I was to be dumb. Yes. When 
I got back he asked me ‘ What did Jessie say when she 
saw them ? * Yes. When she saw them. I told him 
when she saw them she clapped her little hands and said, 
‘Oh! They are from him. If he was only here that 
I could thank him and give him a Christmas kiss, I 
would be so happy.’ Yes. Well, he just rattled those 


EVENING, NIGHT, MORNING. 


127 


crutches as he exclaimed, ^ Potts, now go. Leave me 
instantly, Potts. Don’t provoke me any more. I am 
tired of you and never want to see you again.’ Yes. He 
turned his back to me while he abused me, and his 
speech was slow and thick. Yes. As I was leaving, he 
said, * Potts, can’t you open on the first of May? June 
is too late. Now, my dear Potts, do open early.’ Yes, 
he said, ‘ Now, my dear Potts, do open early.’ But I’m 
keeping him up. Yes. I’ll go to him and let him chop 
a little. Yes.” 

At this point the hotel clerk called to Mr. Potts and 
we went to our rooms. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The pains of love are sweeter than pleasures T 

I had not risen when Grace returned from her morn- 
ing walk. She witnesses the sunrise every day which is 
not cloudy. Uncle Tom McElroy is the only other per- 
son who rises so early. Usually he and Grace meet and 
walk together to the cottage, where they spend half an 
hour or more. Then Grace loiters along the beach until 
the breakfast hour. What she muses on I do not know, 
but she seems to have plenty of things to employ her 
thoughts. As she entered my room she addressed me: 

“ Oh, you laziness. You have missed the sweetest 
morning of the season. The beautiful night was a pre- 
lude to a more beautiful morning. The air is a cordial. It 
is better than a bath in the surf, to be fanned by the 
winds which have been kissing the crested waves all the 
night. The great rolling mother of health was never 
more generous than this morning. Get up quickly. I 
am as hungry as a bear. ^ ’ 

While I dressed she told me of her visit to the cot- 
tage, saying that Mr. Hastings was sinking very rapidly. 
One hour might terminate all, and yet he might linger 
for days. His heart and brain and eyes were all that 
possessed life. He had such peace, too. While he 
talked but little, a constant smile rested on his face. 
Uncle Tom McElroy said that the invalid's feet were on 
the portals, and the infinite light was shining on his face. 

128 


THE PAINS OF LOVE. 


129 


As for herself, for some reason, her happiness had in- 
creased, and she felt light of heart as the air she breathed. 
Just as I finished my toilet there was a rap at the door, 
and to Grace’s response ‘‘ Come,” in stepped her father. 
In an instant she was in his arms, and clung to him so 
long I was compelled to pull her away that I might have 
a kiss and an embrace. She seated him and then sat on his 
knee as she was wont in girlhood. She chattered away 
like a bird in a song, telling him everything. As he 
pressed her to his bosom, he said: 

“ I thought I could part with you, but I cannot.” 

” Oh, yes, you can. We will both sit on your knee. 
I do not intend to leave you. I am going to quarter him 
on you. ’ ’ 

‘ ' On my knee ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, no. In our home. I told him that one of 
these days he must give up his Michigan home and come 
to New York, and he answered, 'Anywhere, so that I 
am at your side. ’ ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then he is to be at your side all the time ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, as you were by the side of my sainted 
mother. ’ ’ 

“And he shall be,” was the reply. 

Things were getting very demonstrative and I con- 
cluded I would go to Flora’s room and tell her of the 
arrival. 

“I am dying to see him,” said Flora, “and will 
make an accidental call on Grace immediately after 
breakfast. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Breakfast with us. ’ ’ 

“No, you, I mean Grace, needs him all to herself 
for an hour. After breakfast I will call.” 

When I returned to our rooms I found Grace still 

9 


130 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


on her father’s knee, her head resting on his shoulder, 
with his lips to her cheek. 

We have had a sweet talk,” said Mr. Preston as I 
entered. 

''My dear, dear father,” said Grace as she looked 
into his face. 

Mr. Preston spoke of Mr. McMillan’s visit to New 
York, and the surprise and alarm he felt on learning the 
object of the visit. He was relieved when Mr. McMil- 
lan informed him that he had not spoken of his love to 
Grace, and came to ask his permission to win her love. 
That he had entered into an understanding with him that 
the relations between him and Grace should remain unde- 
veloped until he could satisfy himself as to Mr. McMillan’s 
character and worth. The latter had given him refer- 
ences, west and east, and he had carefully attested them, 
and was satisfied that he was worthy of his daughter. ’ ’ 

'^Did he tell you that his eyes had tongues?” asked 
Grace, laughing. 

‘‘No, he did not; but I guessed as much, otherwise 
you would not have given him that letter of introduc- 
tion. I think that was a piece of finesse to get your 
lover into my presence.” 

“You guess well. That was just what I did. He 
had to have some aid, or voucher, and who so fitted as 
myself to give one?” 

“I told Mr. McMillan,” continued Mr. Preston, 
“that I was favorably impressed with his appearance and 
manners, and still more so with the consideration he 
paid me by consulting me before he made any positive 
advance to Grace. He had supplied himself with com- 
mendatory letters, of general character, but none bear- 
ing on the matter which he presented to me. Some of 


THE PAINS OK LOVE. 


131 


these letters were from tested business friends of mine. 
In any ordinary matter I would have given him the 
largest credit, but when my daughter’s happiness was 
involved, I required time for a thorough investigation. 
To this he assented, and assured me that until my ap- 
proval, he would continue a respectful attention to Grace, 
but added, ‘This I cannot do without exhibiting a ten- 
derness which mere friendship does not warrant.’ I 
begged him to the utmost care, and not to increased de- 
votion.” 

“And father, he has religiously observed it. Never 
a word of love has he spoken to me. He has observed a 
dignified deference, and I surmised the disagreeable but 
necessary conditions you imposed. There were times 
when his eyes ceased to talk ; but, do what he might, the 
orbs would grow eloquent, and then I was happy.” 

“Then he has kept his faith. I know it is impos- 
sible to control eyes. They will talk, do what you may 
to keep them dumb,” replied her father. 

“Do you speak from experience, father?” 

“Well, no. That is, if I ever thought that eyes 
spoke to me, it was long ago — long ago, and they are 
not here to speak now. Yes, long ago, long ago.” 

“My mother’s?” 

“Yes, dear, your mother’s,” he replied. 

He drew her closer to his breast. They were both 
silent for a time. When he again spoke it was to say . 

“From this hence the restriction is removed. His 
tongue may say what it will.” 

“It cannot be more eloquent than his eyes. Indeed 
I prefer them, and when he commences to tell his love 
in words, it is possible I may forbid him.” 

“Wait until you hear him say T love you’ — until he 


132 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


tells you how dear you are to him. It is my opinion 
that eyes' talk will be dull and stupid." 

‘‘You will see him soon, father?" 

“Yes, if he calls upon me soon." 

Our breakfast was the most enjoyable meal I ever 
ate. True, it was plain, all luxuries absent, but every 
mouthful was as taken from a comb of honey. We lin- 
gered there for an hour. He detailed all the New York, 
our circle, news, and we listened as though we had been 
absent for years. 

We were scarcely back in our rooms when Flora 
McMillan came in. When Grace presented her to Mr. 
Preston, she blundered fearfully. 

“Father, Miss Flora McMillan, daughter of George 
McMillan." 

Mr. Preston put on a surprised look, when Flora 
spoke up with — 

“Pm his sister, not his daughter." 

Grace threw up both arms and exclaimed : 

“Why of course you are. Do you think I would 
fall in love with a widower, with a daughter old enough 
to be my mother?" 

“Then you are in love? How you have protested 
to the contrary. ‘Old enough to be my mother,' she 
repeated. “Miss Preston has heretofore treated me as if 
I were an infant. Meeting me as an invalid, she 
adopted me, and has regulated my deportment, con- 
trolled my appetite, and directed my outgoings and in- 
comings. Recently that big brother of mine, for rea- 
sons yet to be explained, has handed me over, to her, 
body, and, I was going to say, soul. She treats me as 
a governess would a pupil, and I obey without a mur- 
mur." 


THE PAINS OF LOVE. 


133 


^‘Father, she is incorrigible, and since her restora- 
tion to health, sadly needs reformation,’’ replied Grace. 

‘‘Mr. Preston, if ever there was a conspiracy it ex- 
ists between those two. Fortunately for me they are 
seized with a passion which is devouring them, while I 
grow gross and healthy,” returned Flora with a clear 
ring of laughter. 

“Father, you look as if you believe her. You 
might as well listen to a gypsy,” said Grace. 

“Miss McMillan, I believe every word you say. I 
recognize the vassalage under which you have been suf- 
fering, and, while I am here, license will take its stead. 
You shall go when you please, where you please, eat 
whatever you please, as much as you please, say what 
you please, and do what you please.” 

“Oh, I am so glad to have my freedom,” almost 
shouted Flora. 

“What is to become of my system of hygeia?” asked 
Grace. 

“Throw that, where physic should go — to the dogs,” 
said Mr. Preston. 

“That will be nice. What a time I shall have. You 
are going to spend the balance of the season here, aren’t 
3/0U, Mr. Preston?” asked Flora. 

“I am going to stay one day,” replied Mr. Preston. 

“One day!” exclaimed Grace and Flora in unison. 

“Only one day. I must be in New York to-morrow 
at two p. m. That will necessitate my leaving on the 
late train to-night.” 

“Why, father, you will scarcely have time to see 
him,” said Grace. 

‘‘Whom? See whom,” asked Mr. Preston. 


134 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Grace looked at her father a few moments, her 
figure straightened, and in a half pout, she replied : 

'^George McMillan/’ 

‘‘Oh, I have already seen Mr. McMillan. He was 
waiting for me when the train arrived, and we walked 
to the hotel, a lame boy carrying my portmanteau. The 
morning was lovely. I could not bear getting into that 
old bus. Besides, he promised to call at ten o'clock, 
and it is now fifteen minutes of that hour. I must 
leave you that I may meet him.” 

“Well, go right now. There is nothing like 
promptness in this world,” Grace replied. 

I left Flora and Grace together and commenced a 
stroll of the corridors and verandas. I met Mr. Cowls 
who gave me a very sweet recognition, expressing his 
regret that he was unable to walk, else would crave the 
honor of accompanying me. I replied that I was weary 
of walking and would with pleasure be seated, if he 
would give me his society. He answered with as pro- 
found a bow as a man on crutches can make, and assured 
me that he deemed it a condescension. We took chairs 
and soon entered into a very free conversation. When 
I referred to the concert, he begged me to be sparing in 
my comments, as he felt that it but illy repaid us. 

“Mr. Cowls,” I said, “I enjoyed that concert hugely. 
She has one of the sweetest voices I ever heard. In 
very truth I was delighted and I know you must have 
been.” 

“Yes, I was. She delights me often — almost daily. 
I forget all my aches and pains when she sings,” he re- 
plied. 

“ How long have you known the blind girl? ” I 


asked. 


THE PAINS OP lyOVE. 


135 


‘‘Three summers ago I made her acquaintance. It 
was early in the season and strangely brought about. 
You have observed the cripple boy who does chores? 
Oh, yes, I know you have. I have seen him talking to 
you many times. He made himself very useful to me, 
and one day when about to take my morning drive, I in- 
vited Racketts to go with me. While driving, my at- 
tention was attracted by the singing of a bird, and I 
stopped the horse to listen to the feathered prima donna. 
Turning to Racketts, I said, “Is not that very sweet 
“Yes,'' he replied, “but not as sweet as the blind girl 
sings." 

“What blind girl?" I asked. 

“Why, haven't you heard the blind girl?" he re- 
plied. 

“No. Where does she live?" 

“Over in the village, near the pool. There's trees 
all around the pool, and they're filled with birds, that are 
singing all the time till she commences, then the birds 
all stop and listen, cause she can beat ‘em all, and they 
know it," he replied. 

“Can you take me to her?" I asked. 

“Not now. It's too late and too early. She only 
sings in the mornin's and evenin's. We can go this 
evenin', then you can hear her." 

“No," said I, “we will go in the morning. You 
come to me to-morrow in the morning, early, and wq 
will drive direct to her home." 

“The next morning I was awake at dawn, and 
ready for my visit before the sun was up. Racketts was 
promptly on hand, and we drove to the blind girl's 
home. As we neared it, I heard what I thought was the 


136 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


song of a bird trilling and quivering exquisite melo- 
dies. Racketts got out and spoke to her, and led her 
from her seat at the trunk of an oak, to where my buggy 
was standing. He introduced us and the girl sang for 
me. I dearly love music. 'It loosens the serpent 
which care has bound around my heart.’ I visit the 
blind girl every day when the weather, and my ills per- 
mit, and she sings for me.” 

‘'And you are her patron?” I remarked. 

" Oh, no, I endeavor merely to give some slight re- 
turn for the pleasure she affords me. That’s all. That’s 
all.” 

Mr. Cowls is very entertaining company. He is a 
man of reading and much culture, familiar with the ex- 
cellent things which have been written and said in all 
ages and in all climes. He is a storehouse of knowl- 
edge, and the hour I spent with him was most agree- 
able and valuable to me. I thanked him warmly and 
sincerely for the pleasure he had given me, and ex- 
presssed my regret that I had to leave him, while I 
begged that he would permit me to be a listener fre- 
quently hereafter. 

The day slipped away very quietly, its smoothness 
interrupted, occasionally, by sighs from Grace. Mr. 
Preston and Mr. McMillan took a long walk, and, I 
suppose came to definite understandings on the subject 
which engrossed them. Afterward Grace appropriated 
her father. She sent for Sunbeam and exhibited her to 
him. While she talked, the child slipped from her 
knees and went out. Grace missed her and requested 
me to look for her. I was not long in finding her. Mrs. 
Kirkwood had her in her arms, while the doctor was 


THE PAINS OF LOVE. 


137 


playing hide and seek with his face behind the shoul- 
ders of his wife. I reported to Grace. She merely re- 
marked, ‘'I would rather she were at her home. Her 
mother might need her” 

Mr. Preston started to New York earlier than we 
expected, taking the five p. m. train. We accompanied 
him to the station. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Like angels^ visits y short and bright^ 

''We are going to the cottage to-night/’ said Grace, 
as she entered my room after tea. Mr. McMillan and 
Flora are going with us.” 

"Grace, I would rather not go,” I replied. 

"Who will Miss Flora have for company?” she 
asked. 

"Oh, pardon, I had forgotten. Does Mr. McMillan 
know of the suffering and sorrow?” 

"Yes. That is, he knows that there is a dying man 
there.” 

"I will be ready soon.” 

"They will be here in a few minutes. Is not the 
night beautiful?” 

"Yes, but not so beautiful as was last night. I did 
not watch the closing day. Did the sunset compare 
with that of yesterday?” 

"No, it did not. Perhaps we shall never again see 
such a glorious sunset as that of yesterday. I wit- 
nessed it with him, and its beauty and grandeur were 
enhanced by his presence and enriched by his eloquent 
tongue.” 

While we talked the McMillans came. In a few 
minutes we were strolling in the direction of the cottage, 
Grace and Mr. McMillan in advance. I did not think 


138 


LIKE ANGELS’ VISITS. 


139 


it possible for people to walk so slowly. Flora and I 
had hard work to keep from stumbling on them. We 
adopted all expedients to keep behind them. Ever and 
anon we paused, looked out on the dark waves and lis- 
tened to the low monotonous sound of their breaking 
on the sandy shore; scanned the heavens and pointed 
out the constellations, and still we were constantly on 
the heels of the lovers. 

There was a death-like stillness around the cottage. 
The dense foliage of the waxy cedars threw shadows 
over the whole exterior of the little building. Through 
the leaves and vines which enshrouded the window in 
which the dying man lay, struggled the dim rays of a 
lamp. There was no sign of life. Grace went to the 
door and gently rapped. Mrs. Hastings answered. 

‘'You, Miss Preston,’" in surprised voice. 

“Yes, it is I. How is he?” 

“Resting very easy. He is sleeping. Your rap 
did not awaken him. I will come out so as not to dis- 
turb him with our talk.” 

Grace stepped back to where Mr. McMillan was 
standing, and, Mrs. Hastings, gently drawing the door 
to a near close, followed. When she discovered tne 
presence of a gentleman, she excused herself, saying : 

“I was not aware that you had company.” 

“Only a friend, an escort, and aunt and Flora. Mr. 
McMillan, Mrs. Hastings,” said Grace. 

“Mr. McMillan — Mr. McMillan,” she repeated. 

They stood together talking for a few minutes. It 
was evident to Grace that Mrs. Hastings was annoyed 
and discomposed by the presence of the male visitor, and 
she broke off the conversation with — 

“Good night,” and taking the arm of Mr. McMillan, 


140 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


came to where Flora and I were standing in the dark 
shade of the cedars. Mrs. Hastings returned to her 
sorrowful vigils. Flora pointed out what she declared 
was a pair of eyes, shining bright in the shadow. Mr. 
McMillan went forward to discover the glistening some- 
thing. He returned in a minute. 

''Come quickly,’’ assuring us that we had often 
seen the eyes before. We went on tip-toe. At the foot 
of a cedar, seated on a pad of old carpet, with back and 
head resting against the body of the tree, was Racketts, 
fast asleep, and close to his side sat the Major, with his 
eyes wide open. The boy’s left arm encircled the dog. 
As Grace stopped, the Major gave her a look of recog- 
nition, and then licked the face of his sleeping master. 
Racketts opened his eyes, and with surprise said, "Why, 
Miss Grace.” 

"Racketts, what are you doing here?” she asked. 

"Sleepin’. It’s hunkie,” he replied without rising. 

"Why do you sleep here?” she asked. 

"So as to be near her. It wouldn’t do for her to be 
alone when he dies,” replied the boy, rubbing his eyes. 

"Why do you not sleep in the house?” 

'‘Because she won’t let me. I’ve begged her and 
begged her, but she won’t. Says it’s too hard for me, 
and that I must get my rest. She let me try sleepin’ in 
the house, and just because I got up when he coughed, 
she wouldn’t let me sleep there any more, but told me I 
must go to my bed at the hotel.” 

"Have you a bed at the hotel?" asked Grace, her 
voice just above a whisper. 

"Yes, indeed, a nice one. Mr. Cowls pays for it, 
and he was angry at me ’till I told him why, and then he 


LIKE ANGELS’ VISITS. 


141 


said, 'All right, my boy, all right, Racketts,’ and it is, so 
it is” 

"I cannot see how you sleep at all in that way, 
seated on the ground and resting against the tree,’' said 
Grace. 

"As I said afore, somebody must be near her when 
he dies in the night, and I sleeps here so as to be near.” 

"How long have you been doing this?” 

"Since it quit rainin’. Afore that I slept under the 
stoop.” 

"Little use you will be were he to die. You will 
continue to sleep.” 

"Oh, no. Miss Grace. The Major, he knows. He 
kisses me awake w^hen there is any noise in that room. 
Then I gets up and creeps to the window and peeps 
through the vines, and watches her raise his head, and 
wipe his mouth, and put the wet cloth on his forehead, 
and then I know the time hasn’t come yet, and Maior 
and I goes back to bed. He wakes me often, ’cause he 
is afraid it will be so quiet that hardly any of us’ll know.” 

There was a pause for a few moments, when Grace 
continued speaking apparently without thinking. 

"Then you will remain here to-night?” 

"Yes, Miss Grace. To-night and next night and 
every night till he dies. Don’t tell her, else she’ll make 
me go to the hotel.” 

"Good night, Racketts,” said Grace, and we all re- 
peated, "good night.” 

"Good night. Miss Grace. Good night all,” was 
the reply. 

As we turned to the path, Racketts called Grace to 
say, "When the Major licked my face I was havin’ a 
hunkie dream.” 


142 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


'‘Come to-morrow morning and tell it to me/’ she 
replied. 

As we walked, Grace said : 

"How little we know of life, its sufferings, its sacri- 
fices, its devotions, its heroisms. Who would have 
thought that such tenderness and devotion had their 
home in that cripple boy’s heart?” 

Flora commenced to sob, and taking hold of my 
arm, said: 

"Let us hurry back.” 

"What did you say that woman’s name is?” asked 
Mr. McMillan of Grace. 

"Mrs. Hastings,” she replied. 

"Hastings,” he repeated. "I had a sister whose 
married name was Hastings, but she is dead, years ago. 
Gave up her life that a son might be born. The sacrifice 
was in vain. The babe died and was buried with its 
mother. Hastings — Hastings — what memories that 
name awakens !” 

Flora pulled me along, and we were soon out of 
hearing. When midway to the hotel Flora stopped 
suddenly and said — 

"What is that? Listen!” 

It was someone singing in low tones, and the air 
was "The Home of the Soul.” Racketts’ and Sun- 
beam’s "Uncle Tom” and Grace’s "pioneer” soon came 
up. As he recognized us he said : 

"Been to the cottage, have you?” he answered and 
asked. 

"Yes,” I replied. "The night is beautiful — so 
much like day, that we determined to visit the sick. 
Miss Grace and Mr. McMillan are following.” 

"No worse, I guess?” 


LIKE ANGELS’ VISITS. 


143 


‘‘No, he’s resting comfortably, is asleep. We did 
not go in lest we wake him.” 

“That is good. I will return with you, and, per- 
haps, go later. I visit there every night and judge of 
his ability to live until morning. There ought to be 
someone near when he dies. It would be a fearful thing 
for that poor woman to be alone with her dead.” 

“She will not be alone. Racketts is near her 
though she does not know it,” I replied, and then related 
when and where we found the crippled boy. 

“If Racketts were as big and healthy in body as he 
is in heart, what a giant would be on the earth. I never 
met such a boy — so illiterate, yet so full of common 
sense. He has a heart full of tenderness and a disposi- 
tion so Christ-like, that he is a teacher to us all. Crippled 
and poor, he realizes neither, except as they interfere with 
his desires to provide for his old mother, or help those 
who are poorer or more wretched than himself. His old 
mother is his story, and a sweet one it is. When I re- 
turn to the west, I am going by way of New York, for 
no other reason than to call upon his mother. The 
mother of such a boy must be more than an ordinary 
woman.” Uncle Tom seemed terribly in earnest. 

We continued our way to the hotel, and, as we had 
an escort in Uncle Tom McElroy, we did not wait for ^he 
loiterers, who followed slowly. I stopped when I 
reached the veranda, in response to the salutation of Mr. 
Cowls, who was standing and waiting for some one — 
perhaps Mr. Potts. We talked for a few minutes and 
then I bade him good night. He hobbled off intent, no 
doubt, on finding his elixir for sleep, in meeting his 
“block.” We heard a rapid step behind us, and in an 
instant Mr. Primrose held out his hand to Flora, saying : 


144 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘This is the first time I have been down, and I have 
been looking for you everywhere.’’ 

“I did not expect you out so soon after the dread- 
ful fright you received from that dog. It was enough 
to put you to bed for a month,” said Flora. 

“It was indeed. The horrid beast. There must be 
a law against dogs at watering places, or I won’t come 
here. I wish you had come sooner. I brought down 
my pantaloons to show you the tear which that dog 
made when I was attacked a year ago; but I got tired 
carrying them, and mother took them up to my room.” 

“Your mother has good sense. Good night, Mr. 
Primrose,” said Flora. 

He stood without responding. Something was try- 
ing to get through his brain, but could not. 

I determined to wait for Grace. I could see her 
and Mr. McMillan standing on the beach, quite near 
where the waves were breaking. I was scarcely seated 
when Uncle Tom McElroy begged permission to be 
seated on a chair near me. 

“I am going to call you. Miss Rebecca, if the famil- 
iarity does not displease you.” 

“Do so, and I will be pleased,” I replied. 

“I am an old man, not given to fashion nor form- 
ality. People whom I like, get places in my heart, and 
once there I treat them as if they were old acquaint- 
ances.” 

“Am I to understand that I am there,” I asked with 
a smile. 

“Oh, yes, alongside of Miss Grace. She comes 
pretty near filling a heart. I think she completely fills 
one, but that away. Hearts, as they grow old, increase 


LIKE ANGELS’ VISITS. 


145 


in capacity. There is room in mine for all who suffer 
or who love.’' 

^^But I am neither a sufferer nor a lover,” I pro- 
tested. 

“You are both. Nothing escapes my observation 
when there is heart work to do. I am familiar with your 
suffering and have seen exhibitions of your love. Both 
were shown at the cottage the day I met you leaving it. 
They told me of your words of comfort, and your heart 
work. I have a place for you in my heart.” 

“I am glad you have so honored me. My com- 
panions there will all be sweet and loving for I am sure 
there are no occupants save those who suffer and who 
love.” 

“None,” he replied as Mr. McMillan and Grace 
.stepped to our sides. I was sorry of the interruption. 
I wanted to hear Uncle Tom discourse on suffering and 
love. It is only postponed however. I will lead him 
to the subject when I meet him.” 

After talking a few minutes we bade the gentlemen 
good night and went to our rooms. Grace was silent, 
seemingly busy with her thoughts. She gave mechan- 
ical answers to the questions I asked. At last I said : 

“Grace, what are you thinking about?” 

“Of Racketts,” she replied. 

“Of anybody else?” 

“Yes, of many people and things. Was thinking 
of life and death — of the brief present and the endless 
future — of the wide boundless prospects, with which, in 
my imagination, I surround my future life, brief as it 
must be, when longest — my heart’s desires gratified, and 
hopes fulfilled. Was thinking of the narrow view before 

the earthly vision of the dying Hastings. My life just be- 
10 


146 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


ginning, his ending. Ending, did I say? Should I not 
have said, beginning? Oh, the unknown, the unknown. 
I must stop thinking of these things. I get so bewil- 
dered. All must suffer and love. There is no escape. 
We were born to suffer and love, and God has so indis- 
solubly connected them that the one cannot exist with- 
out the other. So I will suffer and love, and love and 
suffer, and be content.’" 


CHAPTER XXL 


I have had a dreamt 

As we left our rooms for breakfast we met Rack- 
etts coming. 

‘Why, you are early, Racketts.’’ 

“Yes, Miss Grace, I wanted to get through soon, so 
I could go to my work,’^ he replied. 

“What have you to do?'’ 

“Help at the cottage, you know." 

“Yes, I know. But what have you to do here?" 
“My dream. I came to tell you my dream." 

“Sure enough. I had forgotten about your dream. 
Was it a good one?" 

“Yes, indeed. Just hunkie, but wakin' me broke it 

off." 

“You go into our rooms and wait until we have 
taken breakfast. We will not be long. Take the Major 
with you." 

As we came from breakfast Mr. McMillan was 
waiting for Grace. 

“Are you ready?" she asked. 

“Yes, when it is your pleasure," he replied. 

“You must be patient a brief while. I have an en- 
gagement which I had forgotten. Made it in your 
presence, with Racketts, to listen to his dream. He is 


147 


148 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


waiting in my room to tell it, and I cannot disappoint 
him.’^ 

''Certainly, you should listen to him?’’ 

"Do you believe in dreams?” she quizzically asked. 

"No, though I confess I have been much worried 
by some I have had, which were followed by almost 
identical events.” 

"I too. But more anon.” 

"Now, Racketts, give us the dream,” said Grace, 
seating herself near the crippled boy. 

His eyes grew large and his face pale, as he com- 
menced. 

"I was in Heaven.” 

"In Heaven?” repeated Grace. 

"Yes, I died and went to Heaven. I wasn’t sick 
long. I was playing with Sunbeam, when all at once I 
had a pain, and I died and went to Heaven. When I 
got to the gate I saw a man standin’ there and I was 
afraid and stopped. Then the man said, 'Is you Rack- 
etts? and I said, 'Yes, sir, I is.’ Then he said, 
'There’s an old lady inside waitin’ for you.’ ’Is they,’ 
said I, and he said 'Yes, there is.’ The Major was with 
me and I looked at the man, and then at the poor little 
dog, what appeared lost, thinkin’ I was goin’ to leave 
him, and I said to the man, 'May I?’ and he smiled and 
said 'Yes, you may take him along with you.’ So I 
picked him up, and in I walked. Who do you think 
was there waitin’ for me? Why, my mother. The dear 
old soul had got there jist a little while afore me, but she 
knew I was cornin’ and was waitin’ for me. So I jist 
dropped the Major and jumped into her arms. Wasn’t 
she glad? She kissed me over and over again, so many 
times. I wasn’t crippled any more, but like the other 


I HAVE HAD A DREAM. 


149 


boys, an mother wasn’t old any more, but young and 
beautiful like you. Then she kissed me again and said 
she’d only been waitin’ a little while an’ hadn’t seen tlie 
place yet, an’ the Major was so glad, an’ acted jist as he 
does when we go home from here, an’ he jumped an’ 
barked, an’ the people standin’ around laughed an’ 
clapped their hands, an’ jist as we were startin’ up the 
beautiful street. Major kissed me awake, an’ you was 
standin’ there an’ my dream broke off.” 

''That was a very sweet dream,” said Grace. "And 
your good old mother was waiting for you?” 

"Yes, but she wasn’t old any more, but young and 
beautiful, and I wasn’t crippled. Didn’t have my 
crutch. I left that behind.” 

"And so you will, my dear boy. There are no 
crutches in Heaven. Did you see Mr. Hastings?” 

"No, he hadn’t got there yet, ’cause I know he’d 
been waitin’ for me.” 

"I’m sure he would have been,” said Grace. "Your 
dream was lovely, and it will all come true one of these 
days. You will die and go to Heaven, and you will 
meet your mother there. She will not be old, but young 
and beautiful, as you saw her in your dream.” 

"Do you think they will let me take the Major in 
with me?” asked Racketts. 

"I don’t see why they should not,” replied Grace. 

"I wish that same man would be at the gate. He 
looked so kind, and doesn’t hate little dogs.” 

"Oh, I guess the same man will be there. They 
don’t change gate keepers.” 

"Now, I must go,” said Racketts. "She’ll be won- 
derin’ what keeps me, for I said I’d only be gone a little 
while. She is not fit to work this mornin’. After you 


150 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


was there last night he had terrible coughin' spells, and 
she was up nearly all night. So was the Major an' me, 
but we can stand it better than her. Good mornin'." 

''Good morning, Racketts," we both said, as he 
dragged himself from the room. 

"Poor little fellow," sighed Grace. 

"Heaven would not be Heaven to him if the Major 
was refused admission," I remarked. 

"Yes, yes," she answered, and then added, "Mr. 
McMillan is waiting for me. I am going to take a sail." 

"You take a sail?" I said in astonishment. 

"Yes." 

"Why, you have always refused to get into a sail 
boat. Not only here, but at all other places." 

"That is true. I never had confidence in the sail- 
ing master," she naively replied. 

"Who is to sail the boat?" I asked. 

"George McMillan." 

"What do you know' of his qualities as a sailor?" 

"He says he can sail her, and I believe him." 

"As in love, so in sailing. You believe every word 
he says to you." 

"Yes. It is sweet to believe him." 

"How long will you be gone?" 

"Indefinite. Get back for dinner I guess. In ihe 
meantime you step up to the cottage and see how they 
are. I was there this morning before six o'clock. He 
is weaker and cannot last much longer." Saying which 
she hurried down stairs to meet Mr. McMillan. 

I watched them from my window as they pushed 
from the shore. Mr. McMillan set the sails, and the 
canvassed boat started off like a bird, skimming the 
waters, bounding through the crested waves like a thing 


I HAVE HAD A DREAM. 


151 


of life. Strange thoughts filled my mind. What will the 
future bring to the couple in the boat. Will there be 
storms and tempests in their lives, or will they sail under 
trade winds, with peace and safety guiding the craft. 
Every family has a coast or turbulent sea, on which 
some of its voyagers have been wrecked. Wisely the 
future is withheld from us. It is enough to bear our 
burdens when they come. Could we raise the veil be- 
hind which the future hides her terrors, we would not 
have strength to love — we would be consumed by 
suffering. 

I concluded that I would walk the verandas. Just 
as I passed. Flora McMillan came from her room, and in 
a moment had her arms around my neck. 

''Where are you bound for?’' 

"Nowhere in particular. I thought I would walk 
the verandas.” 

"I will walk with you. Look, there comes Mr. 
Primrose. He shall be our escort.” 

"Flora, you inveterate tease, do treat him with some 
consideration. He has been raised a pet, and is not so 
much responsible for his weaknesses as is his mother,” I 
remarked. 

"It wont hurt him.” 

He seemed in a listless mood, and almost stumbled 
on us before he observed who we were. 

"Oh, Mr. Primrose, how fortunate that we meet 
you. We want company. We are going to peep into 
all the faces on the, veranda. You will accompany us?” 
said Flora. 

"With great pleasure, ladies. I was thinking of 
you, Miss McMillan, when I almost stepped on you,” he 
drawled. 


152 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


'Tm glad you did not/' dropping her glove, just as 
he turned. We took a step or two forward, and he put 
himself in position to pick up the glove. It was a meas- 
ured performance. She threw her hand to her mouth 
and said: 

^‘The light in the hall is bad, and the grace of the 
movement is lost." 

''You are cruel," I replied. 

"Kind, you mean. He likes service. Not two gen- 
erations back his entire family were in it." 

"Miss McMillan, your hands are very nervous, 
aren't they?" as he handed her the glove. 

"Very," she said, as her fan dropped. 

His left leg flew to the rear with sudden quickness, 
and not half the time was spent in lifting the fan as v-as 
taken in lifting the glove. As he handed it to her he 
said : 

"This is awful. I'm afraid I will burst a blood ves- 
sel. You ought to have your things fastened to 3^ou 
somehow, so they couldn't fall so frequently." 

"It is a good suggestion, of which I had not 
thought. I must attach them to my person, and not 
trouble my gentlemen friends." 

At this point his mother called him, and he reluc- 
tantly went to her. 

"He is getting weary in my service," said Flora. 

"He should. It is like putting him on the rack." 

We took the lower verandas and Mr. Primrose did 
not return. An hour was spent strolling them, but no 
incident of moment or interest occurred. We talked 
and talked, most of which was about Mr. McMillan and 
Grace. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


It were strange indeed were that so,^^ 

I went to the cottage as Grace requested. Was 
in the sick room only a few minutes. Found Uncle Tom 
McElroy there, seated by the bedside. He had been 
reading. An open bible was lying on his knees, and I 
inteirupted his fervent talk by my entrance. After a few 
words of commonplace, he renewed his talk. He was 
talking of the last sorrowful walk of the Master and his 
companions from Jerusalem to Bethany. His descrip- 
tive powers are wonderful. The picture was so vividly 
drawn, that, with my mental vision, I could see the bowed 
heads and girded loins of the Master and his compan- 
ions, in the evening shade, walking the dusty road. 
Could almost hear the beating of the hearts of the dis- 
appointed disciples and feel their longing for rest and a 
place to lay their weary heads. As Uncle Tom talked the 
dying man twitched his fingers. That was the only sign of 
life about him except his eyes. They were larger, fuller 
and brighter, and had a world of meaning in their pene- 
trating gaze. Sunbeam was sitting on a lounge with her 
doll pressed to her breast, while she swayed to and fro, 
lulling it to sleep in quietest tones. I took a seat at her 
side, when she whispered to me, ''Dolly is very ill.'' Tn 
a few minutes I went out to Mrs. Hastings. She met 
me with a kiss and a slight smile, saying — 

153 . 


154 


SIX WKEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


am glad you have called/' 

Racketts was rubbing some laces, and paused in his 
work only to say ‘‘Miss Rebecca/' Mrs Hastings was 
much exhausted, and should have been in her bed in- 
stead of at work. She detailed to me the weary night 
watch through which she had passed, and I wondered at 
her endurance. To love, nothing is labor or sacrifice. 

“Who was the gentleman with Miss Grace last 
night?" she asked. 

“George McMillan, and the young lady, who was 
with me, is his sister Flora," I remarked. 

“Where is their home?" 

“Wisconsin." 

“Are you sure?" 

“Yes, they have frequently referred to it in conver- 
sation." 

“My mother's name was McMillan. The family 
lived in Buffalo. There had been other children but 
they died in infancy. I was the only child which lived." 

“What was your maiden name?" 

“Hastings," she replied. 

“The same as your husband’s?" 

She paused for several moments and then answered : 

“Hastings." 

“Gan it be possible that Mr. McMillan is your rela- 
tive?" I asked. 

“Oh, no. That were a miracle. There is not the 
slightest possibility of relationship between us. My 
mother died when I was a child nine. years of age. I 
recollect her with wonderful distinctness. Daily, in 
spirit, she walks at my side, looking into my face with 
her dear sweet eyes, and consoling me in my distress. 
Last night when Mr. McMillan spoke in answer to the 


strange; indeed. 


165 


introduction, I thought my mother’s voice filled my 
ears; but it was my imagination. The name promp<-ed 
the thought.” 

While she talked I thought of the inquiry Mr. Mc- 
Millan made of Grace, and the conversation which fol- 
lowed. He repeated the name '‘Hastings” several times 
— spoke of a wedded sister who bore that name. Can 
it be possible that these people are relatives? I did not 
mention to Mrs. Hastings the fact that Mr. McMillan 
had made inquiries, or that he had told us that his sister 
had married a Hastings. I will relate the incident to 
Grace. 

'T would like to take Sunbeam to the hotel. Grace 
has gone sailing,” I remarked.” 

"Yes, she may go with you. Sunbeam, put away 
dolly. Miss Duncan wants you to go with her to tne 
hotel.” 

"Yes, mamma, I will go. But don’t you think the 
walk will do dolly good, she’s so unwell ? ” said the little 
sweetness, as she held the doll from her and gazed into 
its face. It was arranged, of course, that dolly should 
accompany us, for the benefit of her health. 

Flora met us as we were passing to our room and 
came in. She sympathized with Sunbeam and the sick 
doll. Her ladyship was disrobed and put into Grace’s 
bed. Diagnosis after diagnosis was made by Flora, in 
her endeavor to discover the disease afflicting her. Fi- 
nally it was determined that she was suffering from an 
attack of heartache. There was but one cure, and that 
was a lover. 

"Miss Grace must be told all about it. She knows 
so much,” said Sunbeam. 

"Why of course she must. She will provide a 


156 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


cure. She knows exactly how to find a lover/’ said 
Flora, laughing and turning to me as a voucher. 

Here we were interrupted by the bell-boy who 
brought a note to Flora. It was from Mr. Primrose 
inviting her to take a drive. He said he would be 
pleased to give her an airing, and that while he could 
not sail a boat, he could drive horses. After reading it 
she said : 

''You will not drive me, Mr. Primrose. I am not 
ready to go to my death.” 

"Have you not confidence in him as a whip?” I 
asked. 

"No, nor anything else. I will punish him for 
growing weary in my service. I will never forget nor 
forgive that suggestion, to fasten to my person my 
handkerchief, glove and fan.” 

"You are growing malignant.” 

"No, only justly revengeful,” she replied with a 
laugh. 

She wrote an immediate reply. It was couched in 
excuses and hints. Did not like carriage riding, but 
was fond of horseback exercise. Detested dusty roads, 
but was in love with the rolling billows. A sail was the 
most delightful of all pleasures, and she was so in love 
with the ocean, that she hoped in the near future to make 
here home where she could hear its moaning and roar- 
ing at pleasure. 

"Don’t you think that will make him hungry for 
the sea?” she asked. 

"I do not. You should have seen him the night of 
the great storm. Fear possessed him, and he upbraided 
his mother for bringing him to the coast. Water and 
dogs are his aversion.” 


STRANGE INDEED. 


157 


‘'Well, he must fall in love with the sea and give me 
indubitable evidence thereof, by sailing alone in tne 
frailest of barks, or he must give me up. Til have none 
of him if he is afraid of the sea,’^ and she tossed her 
pretty head as if she meant it. 

Sunbeam came sliding up to me as if she wanted 
something which she did not like to name. 

“Is dolly worse?’' I asked. 

“No, Miss, she is better, but she wants to visit Mrs. 
Kirkwood. I think that would make her well.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes, Miss Rebecca, I am sure it would.” 

“Well, put up your mouth that I may kiss you, and 
then you may gratify Miss Dolly’s desire to visit Mrs. 
Kirkw^ood. Now kiss Miss Flora and you may go.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Life is a tragedy to those who feeL^^ 

I fell asleep and was wakened by Flora's exclaim- 
ing: 

‘‘They are returning." 

“Who?" I asked. 

“Grace and brother. Come, you can see them 
from the window." 

I took a glance at them, and then we hurried to the 
beach and gave them a reception of handkerchief and 
parasol waving. As Grace sprang ashore, she said: 

“It was delicious." 

“All things are delicious when you two are together 
and alone," replied Flora with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“You are a little goose, my dear," responded Grace. 

The talk was interrupted by an uproar at the hotel. 
There was shouting and running of people. The tide 
was out and we started for the brow of the beach to dis- 
cover the cause of the alarm. It was a runaway. A 
pair of horses attached to a carriage were coming fur- 
iously in our direction from the road leading to the vil- 
lage. 

“It is the Primroses !" exclaimed Flora. 

True enough, it was. While we gazed young 
Primrose dropped the reins from his hands and jumped 
from the vehicle. 


158 


LIFE IS A TRAGEDY. 


159 


''Oh, the coward! And he wanted me to accom- 
pany him,’' said Flora. As he lit on the ground he 
turned a complete somersault, and lay there. The speed 
of the runaways increased. They' came tearing toward 
the hotel like a fury. We could see Mrs. Primrose ly- 
ing between the seats, like a bundle, having fainted, ap- 
parently. At this moment Grace screamed and started 
for the highway. Mr. McMillan had seen the danger first, 
and was half way to the roadway. Sunbeam had left the 
hotel to join us, but when she saw the runaway horses, 
childlike, she turned and started back to the hotel. She 
would have been safe had she continued her way to us. 
Turning back put her in most imminent peril. What 
precious things are seconds. We never realize their 
value except when some startling incident or event is 
resting on their wings. On came the horses with the 
speed of a tempest. Each instant brought them nearer 
to the child. In another moment she would be under 
their feet. Mr. McMillan shouted, Grace screamed, 
and I stood fixed to the sands. The child in her fright 
saw nothing, heard nothing, but stood dumb and still 
in the path of the coming destruction. Her death must 
be instant. Grace fell to the earth, hiding her face in 
her hands. At this consummate moment a crutch was 
seen in the air, and a body struck the child when the 
horses’ heads seemed over her, knocking her from un- 
der their heels. The child was safe, but the sharp iion 
bound hoofs cut the rescuing object down, and left it ly- 
ing in a cloud of dust. In another moment Mr. McMil- 
lan had grasped the bridle of one of the horses, with 
such power as to throw it from its feet. In falling it 
struck its mate, and both horses were down. When the 
dust cleared away, there lay Racketts, bleeding and un- 


160 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


conscious. Mr. McMillan picked the boy up and car- 
ried him to the hotel veranda. As he laid him down, 
Mr. Cowls, in great excitement, exclaimed : 

''Oh, my God! Is there life in him? Is there life 
in him? Where is the physician? Run for him.. Run 
for him,’' swinging his crutches as though he would 
strike if not obeyed. "Run for him. What are your 
legs for?” 

"Potts is coming with him,” some one exclaimed. 

"God bless Potts. He is the only man who has a 
head. God bless Potts,” cried Mr. Cowls. 

It was Dr. Kirkwood who came. Grace seated 
herself on the floor and took Racketts’ head in her lap. 
She bathed his temples with water at the direction of Dr. 
Kirkwood. In a few minutes Racketts opened his eyes 
and recognizing Grace, smiled. His eyes closed and 
there came faintly from his lips — "Mother, mother, my 
poor mother.” 

'‘Yes, his poor mother. Yes. Oh, God, spare him 
for his poor mother’s sake. Yes,” said Mr. Potts. 

"God bless you, Potts. I hope your prayer will be 
ansv/ered. I say amen to it,” said Mr. Cowls. 

His consciousness lasted but a few moments. 
Grace called him by name — told him, "Here is Sun- 
beam,” all the time bathing his temples and wiping the 
blood from the wounds on his face and head which the 
iron hoofs of the horses made. 

"He will die. He is dead,” said Mr. Cowls. 

"No, he still lives, yes, I hope he will recover, yes. 
I loved the boy. Yes,” said Mr. Potts. 

"Thank you, Potts, thank you. God bless you. 


LIFE IS A TRAGEDY. 


161 


You are a man with a heart — a great big heart/’’ said 
Mr. Cowls. 

Again the wounded boy opened his eyes. Sun- 
beam had kissed his pale lips. He smiled, but no w'ord 
came from him. Life ebbed away again. His eyes 
closed and his face grew pale. Grace began to sob, 
while tears streamed from her eyes. Her hand was 
resting over his heart. The beating could not be felt. 

‘'He is dead,” she wailed. 

As if he had heard her, his eyes opened and his lips 
moved, and in a merely audible voice he said, “My 

dream — My mother — Major .” His lips ceased to 

move. His eyes did not close, but the light went out of 
them. His jaws slightly parted. He was dead. 

Grace’s head fell forward, tears gushed from her 
eyes and rained on the face of the dead boy. Mr. Mc- 
Millan gently removed the head from her lap and lifted 
her to her feet, throwing his arm around her, with a 
movement of his head, indicated to us to follow. 

“Help me, Potts — I am too weak to walk. Help 
me, Potts,” pleaded Mr. Cowls. 

“Yes. It’s very trying on you. Yes. Put your 
arm around my neck. Yes. That’s the way. Yes. 
Now drop your crutches. Yes. It’s very trying on 
you. Yes. You are bleeding inwardly. Yes,” saying 
v^hich he picked Mr. Cowls from the floor as if he had 
been an infant, and carried him to his room. 

Mr. McMillan, when we reached our rooms, left us, 
saying he would take charge of the body of the dead 
Racketts. We laid Grace exhausted and almost hys- 
terical on her bed. She sobbed and sighed as if her 
heart would break, and I became so interested in her 
11 


162 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


condition that I forgot everything else. Flora, in the 
deepest emotion, lay at the side of Grace, helpless as an 
infant. 

‘'Bring Sunbeam to me,’' said Grace. 

I immediately went in search of her. As I passed 
along the veranda I met Mr. McMillan, who held a tele- 
gram in his hand. 

“Here is something which will add to our sorrow, 
and still more excite our wonder.” 

“What is it?” I asked in alarm. 

“It is a telegram from New York, requesting Mr. 
Potts to send the body of Racketts to that city, and giv^es 
the intelligence that the boy’s mother died instantly an 
hour ago.” 

“His mother dead !” I exclaimed. 

“So it is telegraphed,” he replied. “While sailing 
to-day Grace told me of the boy’s dream. Now it is all 
fulfilled.” 

“Yes,” I said, “It is strangely verified. Truth is 
indeed stranger than fiction.” 

We hurried to Grace. Mr. McMillan read the tele- 
gram. Grace clasped her hands and said : 

“Oh, is it true? Can it be true? I am so glad. 
His dream is fulfilled, with his mother in Heaven. The 
‘dear old soul,’ as he spoke of her. Oh, I am so glad. 
He will have but one disappointment. The last word 
he uttered was a call for the Major.” 

“He will not be disappointed in that. If dogs have 
souls the Major is with them. When the fallen horses 
were released, the little dog was found in the dust 
crushed to death,” said Mr. McMillan. 


LIFE IS A TRAGEDY. 


163 


Grace sprang from her seat, pressing back her dis- 
heveled hair, she exclaimed — 

“Oh, I am so glad. All three there. The mother, 
and Racketts and the Major.'’ 

“I believe they are together," said Mr. McMillan, 
“Of course they are. Why should they not be?" 
asked Grace. 

No one disputed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Heaven — amazing brightness * * * and everlasting love. 

When the runaway horses were stopped by Mr. 
McMillan, Mrs. Primrose, in a semi-conscious state, v/as 
taken from between the seats. She was quickly re- 
stored and the first words she uttered were: 

‘'Where is my dear boy?'' showing the most moth- 
erly solicitude, “Where is my dear boy?" she continued. 
“Is he killed? I'll go mad if he is dead." 

One of those who aided in restoring her made an- 
swer by pointing to where her dear boy was limping 
toward them, having sustained no injury from the jump 
he made, except, a sprained ankle. In a few moments 
they were together. She threw her arms around him 
and cried for joy. 

“Don't do that," he said, pressing her away from 
him. “You will hurt me more. I'm nearly dead now," 
not manifesting the slightest return of affection. “What 
did you tell me to jump for? I knew I should get hurt." 

“Oh, my dear boy, I was afraid you would be killed. 
I urged you to jump to save your precious life," she re- 
plied, still clinging to him. 

“I knew somebody would stop them anyhow. If I 
had stayed in I wouldn't have sprained my ankle. I'll 
never jump again when you tell me." 

“No, my dear son, you will not. We will never 

164 


HEAVEN IS LOVE. 


165 


trust ourselves to vicious horses again. I am so thank- 
ful that you are alive.'' 

'Tm not. Yes I am, but I wish I had stayed in the 
carriage." 

Leaning on his mother, he half hopped to the hotel. 
They saw the crowd around the body of Racketts, but 
they made neither pause nor inquiry. They knew only 
the misfortune that had befallen themselves. 

Mrs. Kirkwood sent Sunbeam to Grace with a note 
that she was unable to pacify her. The little dear was 
still sobbing and moaning. The appearance of the child 
did much to compose Grace. She took her in her arms 
and began walking the floor, telling her of Racketts' new 
home 

'‘Then he is in Heaven?" said Sunbeam. 

"Yes," replied Grace, he is in Heaven, and his 
mother is there with him. She is waiting for him, just 
inside the gate." 

"There is where papa is going. Uncle Tom told 
Racketts and me that papa was going there." 

"He will soon see Racketts," answered Grace, draw- 
ing the child close to her breast. This soothed and 
quieted the little one. In a few minutes she said : 

"I must go and get dolly." 

"Where is she?" asked Grace. 

"In bed. Mrs. Kirkwood and I put her to bed so I 
could go and meet you. She was sick too." 

"Well, go and get her and then come to me. I 
want to take you home. I must see your father and 
mother." 

I accompanied Grace when she took the child 
home. Mrs. Hastings had just heard of the death of 
Racketts and the tears were washing her eyes. She 


166 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


was greatly concerned about Sunbeam, but had no per- 
son to send after her, and so, she was compelled to re- 
main with the new sorrow added to the old ones. After 
discussion it was concluded that it were better not to tell 
Mr. Hastings of the death of Racketts, lest it might 
hasten his own death, and so we dried our tears as best 
we could, and made an attempt at composure before we 
entered his room. Poor Mrs. Hastings! Nothing 
could add to the forlornness of her manner. Her cup 
was full to overflowing, and she entered the room like 
one lost in grief. 

He was no better. If anything a little worse. 
Uncle Tom McElroy was seated at the bedside, and had 
been there for hours, fanning the dying man and de- 
scribing anew the glories into which he would soon 
enter. 

We talked a little. There was more disposition to 
listen than talk, and Uncle Tom continued his consola- 
tions and his mercy work. Mrs. Hastings relieved him, 
finally, and he accompanied us when we left. On the 
way to the hotel we told him of the death of Racketts 
and the death of his mother. He was greatly shocked, 
and for some moments gazed at us without speaking. 

'‘God is merciful. His goodness passeth our un- 
derstanding. This morning when I was taking my 
walk on the beach, Racketts came to me. As we walked 
he told me of his dream. I told him it would all come 
true, if he continued the good boy he was. He replied 
that he felt it would, and then asked : 

"How soon will it be?’' 

"That is God’s secret,’ I replied. But I never 
thought of such an early realization of it. The fulfill- 
ment has made me weak. I can scarcely walk. I feel 


HEAVEN IS EOVE. 


167 


a vacant place in my heart, and I guess you know what 
I mean, for you each had him in yours. I am glad his 
mother is dead. His death would have been a terrible 
blow to her. Racketts was all she had in her heart, and 
he dead, desolation alone would have been there.’’ 

^‘Yes,” said Grace, ‘'and the Major too. He is 
dead- Killed as I told you. They are all together, 
don’t you think?” 

Uncle Tom paused a moment, and then answered 
slowly ; 

“Yes, all together.” 

We talked all the way to the hotel, and Uncle Tom 
grew eloquent as he spoke of the boy’s heart and works. 

We had not seen Mr. McMillan from the time he 
brought the telegram to Grace. He took possession of 
the body, and directed its preparation for removal to 
New York. In this he was largely assisted by Dr. Kirk- 
wood, who insisted on providing everything and paying 
for everything. Poor Mrs. Kirkwood was greatly exer- 
cised and prompted and seconded her husband in all he 
did. Her grief and sympathy proved that my estim.are 
of her character was correct. 

It was night before his shroud was finished and he 
was wrapped in it and laid in the coffin. Mr. McMillan 
took us to see him. The face was marble like, and the 
expression sweet with no evidence of suffering. The 
hair was combed forward instead of parted at the side. 
Grace complained that the style was unnatural. Mr. 
McMillan gently parted the hair and a great wound was 
exposed. 

“It is better as it is,” said Grace, as she knelt and 
kissed the cold lips, then gave way to her emotion. 


168 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


We led her back to her room, and, sobbing, she 
threw herself on her bed. 

It was arranged that Mr. McMillan should accom- 
pany the body to New York and attend to the burial. 
The telegram announcing the death of Racketts' mother 
had been answered, and the fact stated that Racketts 
had been killed by an accident, with the request that the 
body of the mother should not be interred until the ar- 
rival of his remains. It was further stated that Dr. 
‘Kirkwood had telegraphed his banker to employ an un- 
dertaker to take charge of all matters connected with 
the burial. He would pay all expenses. The old doc- 
tor also telegraphed his pastor to perform all rites and 
ceremonies. 

The next morning we all arose early. Grace and 
Flora and I ordered flowers from the village florist. A 
wreath and a cross, which were laid on the coflin. Just 
before removing it to the train the guests were offered 
opportunity to view the remains. The only violent ex- 
hibition of emotion was made by Sunbeam. Dr. Kirk- 
wood lifted her from the floor so that she might see the 
face of the dead boy. She burst into tears, and cried as 
only a child can. Mrs. Kirkwood tried to quiet her, but 
she herself gave way to tears. The old doctor picked 
up Sunbeam, and then tendering his other arm to his 
wife, left for their rooms. 

While the viewing of the dead body was going on, 
I observed Mr. Potts coming and going from the room 
very frequently. He invariably looked at the dead boy, 
and then at those present, but spoke to no one. I fol- 
lowed him out and said : 

“You appear nervous and restless, Mr. Potts.’’ 

“Do I? Yes. Well, I’m not. I’m only carrying 


HEAVEN IS LOVE. 


169 


ihe proceedings to him. Yes. He's not able to come 
down Yes, I offered to carry him down as I carried 
him up. Yes. But he won't. He keeps me running 
backward and forward, telling him how the dead f)oy 
looks, and what the people are saying and doing. Yes. 
He's very much interested in all. Yes. Told me he 
loved me. Yes. That he loved everybody. Yes. I 
do everything he wants me to do. Yes. I don't worry 
him. Yes. Heartache is worse than boneache, yes, 
and he's got it. Yes. Got it bad, very bad, yes." 

‘'We are all suffering from it," I said. 

“Yes, all suffering from it. Yes. And so we 
should. Yes. All suffering from it," he continued to 
repeat as he hurried in the direction of Mr. Cowls' room. 

It was a sad day. I stayed most of the time in my 
room, and Flora McMillan kept me company. She 
grows sweeter every day, and I am getting very fond of 
her. Grace spends most of the day at the cottage. 
When evening came we went to our beds with aching 
hearts. Flora remained with us for the night, prefer- 
ring to do so rather than to go to her room, saying that 
her heart was desolate and she needed company. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


In my sufficient grace is found 
The strength to dOy 
And in my breast a rest 

The world canH give to you^ 

M}r heart is weary and my head is aching, yet there 
is sweetness in the pain, and comfort in the weariness. 
Rather contradictory to have an aching heart with 
sweetness in it, and a weary head filled with comfort. 
Nevertheless, it is so. Sorrow which is so tempered 
with joy, is no longer sorrow, but sweet contentment. 
A grief, where each pang is softened by a balm, takes 
away the sting and leaves in its stead a joy. 

This is the second day since the body of Racketts 
was taken to New York, and what a day it has been! 
Every moment of the hours, weighted to fulness with 
important incident, has gone into the hereafter as the 
most memorable of my life. My tablets are full of 
notes, many of them almost illegible, they are so 
blurred and blotted. 

Just after breakfast Grace got a telegram from Mr. 
McMillan that he had started from New York. Grace 
and 1 went to the beach. There was no burning, blister- 
ing sun parching the sand, and heating the air as though 
it had passed through a furnace. A filmy sheet of mist, 
looking like a compressed fog, overspread the sky. Be- 
low this sheet were flocks of sheep clouds, scudding 

170 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


171 


lazily but steadily westward, as if seeking some cote 
where they might huddle close together, finding rest 
from the storm, of which the weather-wise say they are 
harbingers. The waves had a regular roll and sweep, 
and broke on the shore as though they were weary of 
their long journey. Far as the eye could reach, a placid 
calm rested on the face of the great deep, and the gulls 
and other sea birds swept so close to the surface, that, at 
times, they appeared to be skimming the water. The 
atmosphere was smoky, and reminded me of early 
autumn days, gray and soft, which come to us as bene- 
dictions after the torrid heat of summer. Such days 
bring thoughtfulness to me, and I pause in the busy 
hum of life and examine myself. My inner life then 
claims me, and asks for a reckoning, demanding that I 
account for my opportunities and my possibilities, I 
make answer to the summons, pleading woman’s weak- 
ness as an excuse for my shortcomings. I pray that the 
Merciful Father will remember my strivings and be tol- 
erant to my failures, knowing as He does, how hard I 
have striven, and how little I have done. I was 
wakened from this reverie by Grace humming a tune. It 
was “The Home of the Soul,” and she hummed as 
though she had gotten it from Uncle Tom McElroy’s 
nose. I said : 

“Grace, what tune is that you are humming?” 

“The Home of the Soul,” she stopped long enough 
to reply, and then resumed it. 

“Where did you learn it?” 

“From a dear old friend,” she answered. 

“I have heard him hum it often. You find good 
companionship in Uncle Tom?” 

“Yes, the very sweetest,” she replied. 


172 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


''I saw you and him together at the end of the ver- 
anda early this morning. What were you talking 
about?’" 

''Be patient, dear aunt. You will see ere long.’’ 

"I am offended at the manner in which you treat 
me. You should confide in me, but you do not. On 
the occasion of my first visit to the cottage, you treated 
me as though I were your servant, and not your com- 
panion and your aunt. I went alone into the presence 
of Mrs. Hastings — remained there alone, and on return- 
ing to the room of the sick man, you never so much as 
noticed me. To attract your attention I said, 'Grace, I 
am going,’ and you replied, 'Well, go,’ as if you were an 
icicle and I entitled to no respectful treatment.” 

"You poor, dear, old dear,” she said, throwing her 
arms around my neck and kissing me. "I would not 
hurt your feelings for the world. When I do so 
thoughtlessly, as I am sure I did on the occasion re- 
ferred to, though it never entered my thoughts that I 
had, I am willing to fall at your feet and ask forgive- 
ness 

"Oh, Grace, stop. Don’t say another word. I m 
a poor helpless kind of body, incompetent to good 
offices. I could not have helped that morning. I be- 
came bewildered while with Mrs. Hastings. What 
could I have done for the dying man? Nothing.” 

"Aunt Rebecca, you are my love and my life. What 
would I have been without you? A constant care, I 
have been self-willed and difficult to control. Your 
sweetness has effected many things for my good. You 
are companion, counsellor, friend, guide, everything, and 
all in all. In my humors I laugh at your counsel, but I 
am sure to follow it. Ridicule your fears and then 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


173 


adopt them myself. You are my eyes and my ears, 
and my brain and my heart. You are the author of all 
the good I bear. Your sweetness has molded my char- 
acter. Now, while I confess all this, there are times 
when I like to take a step in anticipation of what you 
would have me do. Sometimes, you know, I have to 
argue with you, and you know I dislike argument. An 
end v.^hich your reason would reach, my perception per- 
ceives. With me, frequently, impulse is quicker and 
better than reason. Reason is such a tyrant — so exact- 
ing. Whys and wherefores are stumbling blocks to me. 
I do not claim that I have made no mistakes, but wh^n 
has an act of mine caused you, or me, pain or even an- 
noyance? Now, in the event of certain things occur- 
ring, I will have a sweet surprise for you. I cannot 
communicate it now, for it rests on a contingency. In- 
deed, I could not if I desired, for I am bound to confi- 
dence. By and by, my dear old aunt, you shall know 
all.’’ 

‘‘Very well, I will abide in patience until such time 
as your surprise ripens,” I replied. 

“Oh, you will be supremely happy, for I shall be. 
The incident shall be so in keeping with your heart’s de- 
sire, that it will run over in very gladness. By and by, 
dearie,” she closed, patting my cheeks and pushing back 
the hair from my brow. As she ceased talking she 
turned toward the cottage. 

“There comes Sunbeam,” she said. The child was 
walking as if she were dizzy or blind, swaying from one 
side of the path to the other, and stumbling apparently 
on nothing. 

“Hurry, Sunbeam, I am waiting for a kiss,” called 
Grace as she beckoned to the child, but the steps of the 


174 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


little one did not quicken. The same swaying and stag- 
gering marked them. Grace turned to me, her face full 
of anxiety and inquiry, but I could not make response. 
We waited in silence until the child came into the room. 
Her pretty sweet face was almost scalded with tears. 
She reached her little hand to Grace and said : 

“I came to kiss you, and tell you that papa is much 
worse, and poor mamma is all alone.’’ 

Grace, without saying a word, took her in her arms, 
kissed her repeatedly, and handed her bodily to me. 
My lips had scarcely touched the child’s, when Grace 
pulled her from me and kissing her again, said : — 

''Run home, quick, sweet, and tell mamma that we 
will be there in a few minutes.” 

As the child started to run, Grace caught my arm, 
saying : 

"Come, quick, to the hotel.” 

"Had we not better go to the cottage from here, 
Grace? He may be dying. A few minutes may be 
too late.” 

"No, we must go to the hotel. If he is dying, as I 
fear he is, we should not be alone.” 

She fairly dragged me along in her eager haste. 
When we neared the veranda she paused, took a hurried 
look at the crowd scattered along it, and saying 'wait,” 
went in the direction of Flora’s room. In a few minutes 
she leturned, apparently greatly annoyed. 

"That is always the way. When you want some- 
body and must have them, they are not to be found,” 
she said. 

"Whom do you want?” 

"I want Uncle Tom McElroy.” 

"Why do you want him?” I inquired. 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


176 


‘'Why do I want him? Because we must have him. 
That is the reason. He has promised to be there when 
he dies, and if he is not, I fear that all we talked about 
will be naught. I want him there so that he may take 
possession.’’ 

She again glanced over the crowd, went to the hotel 
clerk, with whom she talked for a moment, and hurry- 
ing to my side, said : 

“Come on.” 

We started at almost a run. When near the cot- 
tage we observed Dr. and Mrs. Kirkwood ahead of us. 
They were walking very slowly, she, apparently lean- 
ing very heavily upon him. Just as we recognized them 
Sunbeam burst from the cedars and came running 
toward us, uttering something we could not under- 
stand. 

“We are too late, Grace,” I said. “He is dead.” 
She made no response but started to run, and I at her 
heels. Before we reached the child, the latter had 
caught hold of the old doctor’s hand, and commenced 
pulling him toward the cottage, saying: 

“Oh, come quick, my papa is dying.” 

Grace fairly flew. Just as the doctor was in the act 
of taking Sunbeam in his arms, Grace gained their side. 
Without a word she snatched Sunbeam from earth and 
the doctor’s hands, and bore her in her arms, still run- 
ning, toward the cottage. I hurried on, but could not 
keep pace with Grace and her burden. Dr. Kirkwood 
and his wife quickened their steps. As I passed them I 
glanced at their faces, but did not speak. The doctor’s 
was pale and anxious. Her’s flushed, with the eyes in- 
tensely excited. As I entered the hall of the cottage I 
heard someone at prayer. Uncle Tom McElroy was on 


176 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


his knees at the bedside. I stepped back just as the 
Kirkwoods entered. Raising my hand I motioned 
them to pause. We bowed our heads, Mrs. Kirkwood 
leaning against the wall. Such a prayer. I will not 
attempt to give it. Words would be poor dumb things, 
void of the life which the old man gave them. As I 
listened, I felt that God had to hear and had to answer. 
All the conditions on which His mercy and love rest, 
were present, and the promises had to be fulfilled. The 
swift winged messengers, if such there be, who perform 
offices between God and those who love Him on this 
earth, were weighted with an appeal, every w'ord of 
which was sprinkled with the blood of the Crucified 
Christ. As the old Methodist looked into the face of 
the dying man, and saw the halo which rested on it, he 
dosed his prayer, saying: 

‘Tt is enough. Father. The valley is lighted up. 
Amen.'' 

“Yes, Mary, dear heart, it is all light. There is no 
darkness. Kiss me, dear." 

As these words reached my ears I was pushed vio- 
lently aside. Mrs. Kirkwood, with frenzied eyes, and 
face bloodless as the dead, pressed by me into the room, 
closely followed by the doctor. There was a scream, 
such as only a mother can give, and the cry, 

“God of Heaven ! My son !" 

From the dying man came the single word, 
“Mother." 

I sprang into the room. The old doctor had fallen 
on the floor near the door. His invalid wife had the dy- 
ing man in her arms, alternately passionately kissing 
him and exclaiming: 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


177 


'*My boy ! My boy ! My long lost son ! Oh, my 
darling, my heart! The God of our fathers is still our 
God. He answers prayers. He has restored you to 
me. 

The son’s arms were tightly clasped around his 
mother, but he spoke no word. His big bright eyes 
rested on his wife, who stood at the foot of the bed look- 
ing more like marble than like flesh. Her gray eyes 
had grown larger, and her face was colorless, while the 
expression was that of wonder and amazement, not un- 
mixed with fear and joy. Grace had picked up Sun- 
beam and was holding her tight to her breast. Little 
Robbie was clinging to his mother’s dress. 

Uncle Tom attempted to raise the old doctor from 
the floor to lead him to the bedside, but his limbs re- 
fused to perform their office, and he again sank to the 
floor. With bowed head he exclaimed: 

^'Forgive me, my son, forgive me. If not for mine, 
for your poor suffering mother’s sake, who has been 
sorrowing and seeking you for years. Forgive me.” 

‘^He forgives. I am not sorrowing. I am happy. 
Not even at his birth when my life hopes took form, was 
I so happy as I am now,” said Mrs. Kirkwood, still hold- 
ing her dying boy in her arms. 

“I don’t understand all this,” said Uncle Tom 
McElroy, ‘'but it is surely God’s work, brought about in 
His mysterious way.” 

The good old man again took hold of the prostrate 
doctor when the dying man whispered: 

“Yes, yes, lift him up that I may embrace him. 
Father, I am your son. Yes, you are my father. God 
is the Father of all and we are His children. May He 

grant mercy to both of us.” 

12 


178 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


The mother released her clasp, and the heart- 
stricken father fell on his knees at the side of his son, 
taking the outstretched hand of his son and kissing it. 
He spoke no word, but a sigh escaped, as if a great sor- 
row was thrown from his heart. The dying man wound 
his arm around his father’s neck and whispered: 

‘‘Your son. Father, my father.” 

“Yes, your father, who has sought you for years that 
he might plead your forgiveness, and restore you to 
your almost heart-broken mother, who, during all the 
weary years, has had but one inquiry of the world, and 
one prayer to God — her son.” 

While this scene was taking place between father 
and son, Mrs. Kirkwood had taken Sunbeam from 
Grace and was passionately kissing her, saying: — 

“My heart knew you. My heart knew you. You 
crept into it the first moment I saw you. Call me 
grandma.” 

“Grandma,” replied Sunbeam, throwing her little 
arms around Mrs. Kirkwood’s neck. 

Grace took the child and Mrs. Kirkwood returned 
to the bedside of the dying son. The old doctor still 
rested on his knees, while he clasped the hand of his 
son in both of his. 

“All together at last,” said the dying man with his 
eyes resting on his statue-like wife, who had stood un- 
moved and speechless. 

“Father, mother,” pointing to his wife, “this is 
Mary, my good, suffering, patient, loving wife, your 
daughter, and little Mary and Robbie, our children.” 

“Yes, yes,” responded the old doctor, “they are 
mine — they are ours, your mother’s and mine.” 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


179 


Mrs. Kirkwood walked to where Mrs. Hastings 
was standing, and throwing her arms around her neck, 
kissed her a number of times, saying: 

‘‘My daughter, my dear son’s wife, I am your 
mother. With him you have been in my heart for years, 
and there you will remain always. Oh, how I have 
longed for years to say this, my daughter.” 

The large gray eyes filled with tears, the blood 
rushed into her face, there was a quiver and a sob, and 
the young wife fell forward onto the bed, her head rest- 
ing at the side of her husband. He feebly stretched out 
his arm and encircled his wife’s neck, drawing her close 
to his breast. His eyes closed and the pallor of death 
settled on his face. 

“Oh, do not die. You must not, shall not die. If 
you do, I cannot live,” exclaimed his agonized mother. 

“God’s will is God’s love,” said Uncle Tom, taking 
Mrs. Kirkwood’s arm as though he would lead her from 
the bed. 

“God’s mercy is God’s love,” she replied. “In very 
pity he should spare him. What has life been, what 
can it be to me without him. I will never part with him. 
When he dies, I will die.” 

The eyes of the dying man opened. His face 
flushed. Life seemed to be coming back to him in re- 
sponse to his mother’s prayer. It was only for a mo- 
ment. The deathly pallor returned. Looking at his 
mother, in a merely audible voice, he said : 

“Yes, for her and for them,” pointing to his wife 
and children, “you must live.” 

“Yes, for me. Grandma,” said Sunbeam reaching 
up her little hands. 


180 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘‘Oh, my Father! My heart will break. Spare, 
Oh, spare the rod,'' she exclaimed, as she took the child 
in her arms. 

“Rather ask for strength to walk under," said Uncle 
Tom. “You are now, even in your sorrow, enjoying 
wondrous love. Ask Him to increase it by giving you 
strength." 

“For her and them," whispered the dying son. 

Mrs. Kirkwood kissed the child and then turning 
kissed Mrs. Hastings. Leading the latter to the bed, 
the mother and the wife knelt, and Mrs. Kirkwood, with 
clasped hands and upturned face, prayed: 

“Father, for the sake of these, give me strength to 
pass under the rod." 

“Amen," said Uncle Tom. “He will answer that 
prayer. He led you here that He might lead you all 
henceforth to the end." 

“Peace, all is peace," said the dying one, closing his 
eyes. There were a few moments of silence, only 
broken by sobs. The old doctor, with head bowed, had 
Robbie in his arms, while Grace was pressing Sunbeam 
to her breast. Mrs. Kirkwood and Mrs. Hastings were 
still kneeling at the bedside. Uncle Tom in a low 
sweet voice commenced to sing, “The Home of the 
Soul." I am sure I never heard anything which was so 
sweet to me. The stillness which followed the song was 
painful. All were aware that the end was near. Uncle 
Tom and I seemed isolated, and I felt lost in the silence 
as though it were darkness. 

Suddenly there was a quick nervous movement of 
the dying man. We pressed close to the bedside. The 
mother and the wife had risen, and with intense anxiety 


SUFFICIENT GRACE. 


181 


were watching the expiring life. Looking at his 
mother, he said: 

^‘Kiss me.^^ 

Then to his wife: 

^‘Kiss me.’’ 

Turning to his father, he gasped : 

‘'Yours as they were mine.” 

His eyes slowly closed and with the shutting out of 
the light, his soul went home to God. The wife and 
mother did not notice that he was dead, so quietly had 
the spirit fled. 

Uncle Tom turned to Grace and said: 

“He is with them.” 

This remark awakened the two women to con- 
sciousness. 

“Dead,” exclaimed his mother — “dead! My boy 
dead! Oh, God, pity me. Pity me. Why was he re- 
stored to me living, if but to die?” 

“That you may have these,” said Uncle Tom, as he 
led Sunbeam and Robbie to the side of Mrs. Hastings. 

“Grandma, for us,” said Sunbeam holding up her 
arms. 

“God is good,” said the old doctor, as he came to 
where the women were standing with the children. 
*'God is very good,” he continued. “My fearful bur- 
den has been rolled off, and though he is dead, he lives 
to me in these heart idols he has left.” 

Mrs. Kirkwood fell upon the dead body. Poor 
Mrs. Hastings stood as if dazed. Her eyes rested on 
vacancy, and her pale face was cold and expressionless. 
Her lips moved and she uttered one word: 

“Alone.” 


182 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


At the sound of it Mrs. Kirkwood arose from the 
bed as if renewed strength had been given her, and turn- 
ing to the widow drew her close to her bosom, saying: 

‘‘No, daughter, not alone. I am your mother as I 
was his, and I have promised to live for you and these,’" 
touching the heads of the children. She led Mrs. Hast- 
ings into the rear room, and seating her on a lounge, 
placed Sunbeam between them. 

‘‘Is papa dead?” asked the child. 

“Yes, my dear little daughter, papa is dead.” 

“Then he will never cough any more, nor will the 
blood come from his mouth. They don’t get sick up 
there, and don’t cough, nor have pains, and papa is with 
his elder brother. Uncle Tom told me that he would 
be. He says Jesus is papa’s elder brother, and that He 
wanted him with Him. I guess they are playing to- 
gether now. You told me so. Uncle Tom.” 

“Yes, my dear little pet, I did, and it is true,” re- 
plied the good old man. 

“We can’t see them, though, can we?” 

“No, we cannot see them, yet they are together. I 
have a way of knowing to a certainty that your papa is 
with his elder brother,” replied Uncle Tom. 

“I know he is, too,” said the child. “I feel so easy. 
The pain has all gone out of me. Has it gone out of 
you, mamma?” 

“Not yet, my dear, but it is going,” replied ^he 
widow. 

“Resignation,” repeated Mrs. Kirkwood. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


** Scene followed scene with such rapidity that I grew losi,^* 

Grace and Dr. Kirkwood had remained in the room 
with the dead, and consulted as to the disposition of the 
remains. It was determined to send them to the hotel 
as soon as they were prepared. The widow and chil- 
dren should be removed there immediately. Grace 
came to where we were to tell of the arrangements. 

''You dear, should change your clothing,’’ said 
Grace to Mrs. Hastings. 

"I have no change. What I am wearing is the 
best I possess.” 

"Then I will go to the hotel and bring you one of 
mine.” 

"No,” replied the widow. 

"No,” said Mrs. Kirkwood, "just as you are, my 
daughter.” 

"Just as I am, mother.” 

"Mother, mother,” repeated Mrs. Kirkwood. "It 
is nearly eight years,” she continued, "since I was called 
mother. When my son uttered it to-day it echoed 
through my heart. Your voice must make it familiar 
there.” 

While waiting for the carriage we entered the room 
where the dead man lay. Mrs. Kirkwood’s attention 
was called to the photographs, when she said : 

183 


184 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


‘'Why, there is my picture.'^ 

It was the face which had haunted me. 

“How changed, she said in a sad tone. Mrs. 
Hastings took it from the wall, saying : 

“It was his greatest treasure. Since his sickness 
became serious it was unusual for it to be hanging. He 
had it in his hand almost constantly, gazing at it for 
hours.^' 

“And the other pictures. Who are they?'" 

“Relatives of mine. My mother and her brother," 
replied Mrs. Hastings. 

“Your mother and her brother," repeated Grace, 
“and who were they?" 

Before answer could be given the undertaker en- 
tered, and requested our withdrawal. Grace took Mrs. 
Hastings' hand and led her upstairs. They did not re- 
turn until the carriages arrived to take us to the hotel, 
to which all of us went. 

Mr. McMillan returned from New York on the 
evening train. He informed us that on reaching the 
city the previous day he had been met by Mr. Philip 
Duncan, who was waiting to receive the body of Rack- 
etts. 

“Who? Philip Duncan?" asked Grace, while I 
stood amazed to dumbness. 

“Yes, Philip Duncan, your uncle and Miss Re- 
becca's brother," he replied. 

The blood was all out of my heart. 

“What new mystery is here?" I excitedly asked. 

“No mystery," he answered. “Your brother knew 
the mother of Racketts. Met her one night when a 
fearful storm prevailed. She sheltered him, and he in 
return provided shelter for her and her crippled son. 


CHANGING SCENES. 


185 


The house she lived in belonged to him. About the 
moment when the accident occurred to Racketts, the 
mother was seated in her room talking to a neighbor 
caller, when on the instant, she threw up >her hands and 
exclaiming, ''Oh, my son!'' expired instantly. Your 
brother believes she saw the accident in which Racketts 
was killed." 

I burst into tears as I took Grace in my arms, ex- 
claiming : 

"Oh ! Grace, it was poor dear Phil for whom they 
prayed that night. In answer to their prayer God re- 
claimed him." 

Grace could make no response, but stood with her 
eyes cast to the floor, a very Niobe in tears. 

"Yes, it was he. He told me all about it when he 
learned who I was. At the graves of Racketts and his 
mother stood your brother Phil, his wife, and two sweet 
little daughters. The first dews on the mounds were 
their tears, and the first flowers placed on them were 
their offerings." 

Grace was still motionless, weeping, though not suf- 
fering. Mr. McMillan gently led her to a seat. When 
she became composed she said to him : 

"I want you to go to the cottage. On the walls in 
the room in which Mr. Hastings died, you will find two 
photographs. Bring them to me." 

Mr. McMillan retired. Grace came to me and kiss- 
ing me, said : 

"Dear, good uncle Phil." 

"Oh, Grace," I exclaimed, "what will I do with my 
heart? It will burst." 

"No, it will not. It is not even full. It will hold 
more, and there is more to come." 


186 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


''What do you mean? Let there be no more mys- 
tery, I implore you. What new disaster awaits us?'' 

"No disaster. The very oil of joy will be poured 
into your heart. All the troubled waters will be stilled 
to calmness. George McMillan is Mrs. Hastings' uncle. 
Those photographs on the wall are likenesses, taken 
years ago, of his sister, Mrs. Hastings' mother, and of 
himself. I have sent him to bring them to me." 

I was dumbfounded. Emotion gave place to won- 
der. 

"Go to Mrs. Hastings' room. Bring her to me. I 
want her when he returns." 

I obeyed without saying a word. In a few minutes 
I had her in the presence of Grace. 

"I thought it better that you should be in our room. 
Mr. McMillan has gone for the photographs." 

While Grace spoke we heard his hurried footsteps. 
There was a rap and entrance at the same moment. He 
had the photographs in his hand. 

"Whose pictures are these?" he said holding them 
out. Before the widow, who was nervous to silence, 
had time to answer, Mr. McMillan continued, "Why 
should I ask when looking into your face. You are my 
sister's daughter. Mary McMillan was your mother." 

"Yes," sobbed Mrs. Hastings. 

She had not time to utter another word. The great 
stout arms of George McMillan had locked her in their 
embrace. 

"Poor, suffering, sorrow-stricken heart, throw your 
burden upon me. Oh, God of love and compassion, 
give to me her weight of sorrow." 

I could bear no more. My eyes grew filmy, and I 
sank into a chair, lost to everything but joy. There 


CHANGING SCENES. 


187 


seemed to be a stream rushing through my heart, every 
drop of which was an ecstasy. When I looked again 
the two women were resting their heads against his 
great, wide chest. The widow's eyes were closed, while 
those of Grace looked up into his face. 

'Ts there still room in it for me?" she asked. 

“Room in my heart for you? Yes, my life, until 
all the things that are, and all the things that are to be, 
have decayed." 

I arose and left them. Going to Dr. Kirkwood's 
rooms I found Mrs. Kirkwood with Sunbeam in her em- 
brace, looking into the child's gray eyes and toying with 
her hair. The doctor with Robbie asleep in his arms, 
was seated at the window, gazing out in silence on the 
ocean. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


This was the tale she toldT 

The body was brought to the hotel and placed in 
one of the rooms occupied by Dr. Kirkwood. Mrs. 
Kirkwood had the body taken from the coffin and laid 
on the bed, at the side of which she kept vigil all the 
night. 

I had an interesting talk with Dr. Kirkwood 
wherein he told me the story of his sorrow. I will not 
enter into details. His only son and only child had mar- 
ried, without the father’s consent, a girl in the lowly 
walks of life. This greatly offended him, and in his 
anger he forbade the son to bring his wife home, but to 
depart forever from him. The son fled the city, tak- 
ing his wife with him. Within twenty-four hours the 
doctor repented of his harsh act, and sought for his boy, 
but failed to find him. In company with Mrs. Kirk- 
wood, he had visited all cities, and exhausted all re- 
sources, in an endeavor to discover his whereabouts. 
Under the stress of sorrow Mrs. Kirkwood’s health 
failed, and they had to come to the Beach to restore it if 
possible. For weeks they had been within a stone’s 
throw of the dying bed but were ignorant of the fact, un- 
till the discovery, as I have told. 

188 


THE TALE IS TOLD. 


189 


I bade the doctor and his wife good night, and went 
to my room where I found Grace and Mrs. Hastings. 
As I entered, the latter rose to depart, when I said : 

“Stay. I want to talk to you. I have just left Dr. 
Kirkwood. He told me the story of his sorrow. Won't 
you tell me yours?" 

“Yes, if you will wait until I visit the dead. I 
wanted to sit with mother, but she will not permit it. 
Says I am worn out and must rest." 

I was impatient to hear it, but complied with her 
request. Grace said that she knew much of it. In a 
few minutes Mrs. Hastings returned. I arranged seats 
for three of us near the window. 

“I know little of my infancy. My mother died 
when I was a child of nine. My recollection is that her 
married life was unhappy, I frequently found her in 
tears, on which occasions she would take me in her arms 
and weep still more bitterly. After the death of my 
mother, my father put me to live with strangers, in a vil- 
lage of central New York. I remained there until I 
was twelve years of age. My father visited me twice 
during these years. He met me coldly, without the 
slightest exhibition of affection. On a third visit he 
brought me to the city of New York, and placed me in 
a family where I was required to aid in the housework. 
During the first year he visited me frequently. Then 
his visits grew less frequent, months elapsing between 
them. I was walking one morning in the winter time, 
when I met two ladies. Just as I was passing them one 
slipped and fell. I ran to her aid. As I endeavored to 
raise her from the pavement, she said : 


190 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Xet me remain. Can you get a carriage? I have 
broken my limb.’ 

''I then observed that she was young and beautiful, 
and that her companion was old and infirm. I went 
and secured a carriage. Quite a crowd had gathered 
around them, and when I got there with the carriage, 
had no difficulty in having her lifted into it. I helped 
the elderly woman in, and as I stepped back the younger 
one said: 

'Please get in. I will send you home.’ 

"I complied. They lived in an elegant home on 
one of the fashionable streets. After seeing them safely 
in the house, I was about to leave, when the sufferer 
said : 

'Not yet. Wait until the physician has been here.’ 

"I did so, making her as comfortable as I could. 
When I left, I promised to return in the morning to 
learn her condition. This I did for several mornings, 
during one of which visits she learned my history, and 
I her name — Lawson. She expressed great sympathy 
for me, and offered me a permanent home, but I refused 
her kindness, not knowing then that in a few days I 
should be compelled to accept it. On returning from 
one of these visits, Mrs. Collins, (that was the name of 
the family with whom I lived) informed me that I must 
seek a new place, as my father had neglected for a year 
to pay the pittance agreed upon, besides my labor, for 
my board. I was fearfully shocked. I went to my 
room where I fell prostrate on the floor, and wept tears 
of desolation. Then I knelt and prayed to the God of 
the orphan. A great comfort came to me, and I arose 
feeling that my prayer would be answered. I returned 


THE TALE IS TOLD. 


191 


to Mrs. Lawson^s. On entering the room I burst into 
tears, and in reply to her inquiry, told her my distress. 

'Thank God that you are homeless,’ she said, as she 
reached out her arms for me. I went to her bedside, 
and she drew me down and kissed me. That was the 
first kiss I had received since the death of my mother. 
It thrilled me as though electric. My heart leaped and 
the blood raced through my veins and arteries. 'This 
is your home,’ she added. 

"I cannot describe my feelings. When I got to 
the room assigned me I wept for joy. In the course of 
a few months Mrs. Lawson fully recovered. 

"I will not go into a detailed history of her life. It 
is enough to say it was full of trouble. She was un- 
happily married. Her husband was scarcely ever at 
home. After Mrs. Lawson recovered, she sent me to 
school, and for three years I was thus happily situated. 
At this time the old lady, Mrs. Lawson’s mother, died, 
and within two weeks thereafter Mr. Lawson came 
home. It was his third visit while I lived with the 
family. One morning Mrs. Lawson informed me that 
her husband desired her to accompany him to Europe, 
and that she had made provision for my continuance at 
school. They gave up their house and sold their furni- 
ture. I was placed to board in an excellent family. 
Robert Kirkwood visited the young lady members of 
this family, and I made his acquaintance. From our 
first meeting we were attracted to each other. His visits 
became more frequent, and his society more necessary 
,to my happiness. He finally proposed marriage. I 
loved him more dearly than I did life but I told him I 
w^ould not give an answer until I had consulted my 
benefactress. I wrote her, but no answer came. Mr. 


192 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Kirkwood, (that is Robert) grew impatient and impor- 
tunate. One morning I received a letter from Paris, 
the superscription of which I did not recognize. I 
opened it tremblingly, and the contents were : 

‘Mrs. Lawson is dead. Before dying she requested 
me to inform you of the fact. 

Respectfully, 

L. D. Lawson.' 

“Everything turned to darkness. It appeared as 
though the sun were blotted from the heavens. I 
could hear but one sound and that was the word ‘alone' 
ringing in my ears. I was beside myself with grief. 
While in this condition Robert Kirkwood called. I 
handed him the letter and when he had finished readmg 
it, he clasped me in his arms, saying: — 

‘Now you are mine. I must protect you from the 
world. I can only protect you as my wife. You are 
alone and cannot impose any reasonable conditions.' 

“That evening we were married. On the following 
morning he informed me of his father's anger, and .he 
penalty he imposed — my desertion or his exile from his 
home. 

‘What will become of me?' I exclaimed in agony. 

‘What will become of you?' he repeated, ‘you are 
my wife, and I will part with earth and heaven before I 
will part with you.' 

“I lost consciousness. When it returned I was 
resting on his breast. Within twenty-four hours we 
had quitted the city. We went direct to New Orleans. 
For the purpose of evading pursuit, Mr. Kirkwood as- 
sumed the name of Hastings — my maiden name. Be- 


THE TALE IS TOLD. 


193 


ing a good French, Spanish and English scholar, he got 
employment in a large commission house. Within a 
year he was sent to Rio and I accompanied him. Lit- 
tle Mary was born the first year, and we remained there 
five years. 

‘'The business of the house prospered, and we were 
very happy. However, there was a shadow stretching 
from his father's house, which at times cast a gloom in 
ours. His love for his mother was of the most passion- 
ate character, and he had a constant longing to see her. 
His health began to fail. We determined to return. 
On reaching New Orleans he was not improved, and 
was much disheartened. Physicians claimed that they 
could restore him to health. We used all remedies to 
do so. Our means were being rapidly depleted. He 
became better and then we came north to New York 
City. It was his intention to visit his parents. One 
morning he started to do so. He met his father on the 
street, looked into his face and imagined that his father 
knew him but refused to recognize him. He was dis- 
carded. Then a foolish pride slipped in, and he did not 
call on his mother. Oh, what a mistake that was. Plad 
he followed the promptings of his heart, all would have 
been well, and to-day he would have been living and 
happy. We came here last May one year ago, hoping 
that the salt air would renew his strength. We were 
very poor. I took in light washing. Poor crippled 
Racketts was one of my first acquaintances. Mr. Kirk- 
wood improved a little during the first summer, but last 
winter, near the close of it, he failed rapidly. Spring 
brought no renewal of strength. Then Grace came, 
and Uncle Tom and a sweet light partially dispelled our 


194 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


sorrow. The morning you came to visit me I was 
washing a lace handkerchief in the corner of which was 
delicately written the word ‘Kirkwood.’ I answeied 
your inquiry by replying, ‘Only a name, only a name. 
You know the rest.’ ” 

“Yes,” I replied, “it has been a suffering past. It 
will be a cruel future which will deny you happiness.” 

I kissed her good night and we all retired. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


^^His humors^ though violent^ were wholesome ^ 

As we were on our way to breakfast this morning 
we met Mr. Cowis. He came to a halt, as he saw us ap- 
proaching, propped himself on his crutches, and stood 
uncovered, with his hands raised in benediction. 

‘'God bless you. God bless both of you,’' he said. 

“God’s blessing on us all,” replied Grace. 

“Yes, on all who suffer and all who love,” returned 
Mr. Cowls. 

“Those who do not, need his blessing most,” re- 
plied Grace. 

“But do not deserve it so much,” rejoined Mr. 
Cowls. 

We chatted with him for a few moments, and as we 
parted his hands were again raised in a plea for our care 
and happiness. 

After breakfast we went to the beach. Grace 
pointed to the ships in motion saying : 

“Some are going and some returning. Such is 
life. Coming and going make up the whole of exist- 
ence. We go to-day.” 

“To-day,” I said, in surprise. 

“Yes, to-day. Our lives have become strangely 
mixed up with those of Dr. Kirkwood and his family, 
and we will accompany them to New York. Mr McMil- 

195 


196 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


Jan and Flora, of course will go, and it is better tiiat we 
go also. Our visit here is over. All its ends and pur- 
poses have culminated. We have been led in strange 
paths to strange deliverances. Without positive aims 
that which I most desired has taken place. Do not mis- 
understand me, aunt. I do not refer to the incident 
most directly connected with me as an individual. I 
mean that I have learned so much of real life — that life 
IS made up of duties and responsibilities, and they are 
idlers who fail to assume the one and perform the 
other.’’ 

Again she turned to the sea and was silent. The 
gentle wind was tossing her hair over her temples, and 
her exquisite face was increased in loveliness by the quiet, 
thoughtful expression which rested upon it. In a re- 
flective way, she said : — 

'Toor Uncle Tom McElroy, he suffers a double 
pain. He had determined to adopt the widow and the 
two children and take them to his western home. They 
have found new hearts in which to nestle, and there is a 
big vacant place in Uncle Tom’s. Now he says Tt is 
best as it is.’ Were he not so good he would be un- 
happy. He is going to the city with us and will be our 
guest.” 

The Express Company took charge of the dead, 
and relieved Dr. Kirkwood and Mr. McMillan. When 
we descended from our carriage at the station, we ob- 
served Mr. Cowls seated in a buggy. Potts was his 
driver, having taken Racketts’ place. Grace and I went 
to him to bid him good bye. 

‘‘God bless you both,” he said. “God bless you 
both.” 


WHOLKSOMK HUMORS. 


197 


miss you very much, ladies, yes, very much, 
yes,'’ said Mr. Potts. “It will be dull to him without 
you, yes, very.” 

We waved them good bye from the car window as 
the train started. Mr. Cowls was uncovered, with his 
head bowed, while Mr. Potts kept sawing the air with 
his right hand, uttering something which we could not 
hear, and at the same time looking across his nose at the 
bowed head at his side. 

Dr. Kirkwood was seated with Robbie on his knees, 
or rather all over him. Sunbeam and her grandmother 
were on the same seat. All the way to the city Mrs. 
Kirkwood toyed with the child’s hair, or patted her 
cheeks, or submitted to the affectionate clinging of the 
little one , around her neck. Flora and the young 
widow sat together, and Mr. McMillan and Grace oc- 
cupied another seat. Uncle Tom was seated at my side. 
I am in love with the Methodists. En route he de- 
scribed to me the labors, glories and triumphs of the 
pioneers. I am in love with their sacrifices — their cour- 
age — their devotion — their inspiration, and their con- 
secration. While he protested that he was not one of 
them, he acknowledged that he had learned at their feet. 
He is a type of them. They must have more closely re- 
sembled the character of the Nazarene, than any other 
class of men who have aided in spreading the sweet 
truths which were uttered on the Mount of Beatitudes 
by the loving Master. 

As we whirled along, he, at my request, sang to me 
in lowest and sweetest tones, “The Home of the Soul.” 
My heart ran out with the song story, until I longed to 
be of those who walk with God. He also told me of a 
young man who bears his name, an only child, who is 


198 


SIX WEEKS AT THE SEASIDE. 


far away among the benighted, proclaiming the un- 
searchable riches of Christ the Lord. He has promised 
to write to his son and speak to him of me, and I have 
promised, well, no matter what, but I will keep it when 
called upon to fulfill it. He must be like Uncle Tom. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


'‘^The end will ease our heart 

Christmas has come and gone. We had a wed- 
ding. Grace is very happy, as indeed we all are. She 
did not go away on a marriage trip, but remained at 
home. Mr. Cowls is still our guest, though he came 
to remain only until the morning after the wedding. Mr. 
Preston will not permit him to return to his Philadel- 
phia home for a week yet. Just before he came over he 
sent Potts down to the beach with well filled hampers, 
baskets, etc. He says he is anxious to hear what die 
blind girl said when she saw the array of good things. 

Yesterday we drove to the cemetery. He wanted 
to see the graves of Racketts and his mother. There is 
a plain marble shaft over it, and the inscription on it is 
''To Racketts and his Mother.’' On the base, in relief, 
is the figure of a little dog, with the word "Major” un- 
der it 

As we were leaving Mr. Cowls uncovered his head 
and said: 

"God bless all who suffer, and all wh<^ love,” and 
we all said, "Amen.” 


THE END. 


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